


The Darkest of Days

by Lokisarmy0602



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 48,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7964155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokisarmy0602/pseuds/Lokisarmy0602
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruised and bloody, D'artagnan can only hope his brothers find him before he slips into the darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Interrogation

D'artagnan couldn't sleep, he couldn't think, he couldn't move. All he could do was breath and even then the pain he felt from doing so caused him to wince every time, his ribs going against the simply act of breathing.

However, he wouldn't give in, not now when he needed to be at his strongest. He would not break, no matter how hard they came down on him. No matter how hard they hit his body or how hard they tried to break his calm and confident front, he would not give in. He was strong. Maybe not physically, his bones weak and stomach aching for a decent meal, but in his mind he was strong.

So no, he wouldn't betray his brothers or France by answering the Spaniard's questions. To his dying day and his finally breath, he would stay true to. He knew his brothers were on their way; they just needed a little time to find him and the other musketeers who had been taken. It would be over soon, the torment and the pain, and the man in charge would be dead at D'artagnan's feet. He would make sure of that.

"You still fight against us, why?" The Spanish Captain, Antonio, said to him, pressing his face awfully close to D'artagnan's so that his breath brushed against D'artagnan's cheek. The younger musketeer gritted his teeth and held his head high, showing no sign of fear or backing down.

"Because of my honour and loyalty to France," D'artagnan said, keeping his voice strong and not allowing it to crack. Antonio simply huffed a laugh, leaning back slightly to study D'artagnan with curious eyes, a hand coming to scratch his growing beard. D'artagnan felt like something on display, sick rising up within him as he tried to keep his head held high in his aching position.

The musketeer was hung up to a tree, rope tying his hands together above his head to the tree branch and causing his upper body to feel numb as it stretched upwards. His shoulders ached from the strain, his toes only brushing the ground and not helping with holding his weight up. His muscles in his arms twitched, wanting nothing more than to be freed from the rope and be allowed to relax.

He slowly turned his head, closing his eyes momentarily due to the pounding headache that suddenly flared up from the movement. He took in a deep breath before opening his eyes again. He looked around to see his fellow comrades still sat hunched over, wrists tied together by rope. The look on their faces were ones of pure fear and their shaking bodies only angered D'artagnan even more, giving anything to punch the man that stood in front of him for causing all this.

He pulled roughly at the rope that bound his hands together, it slowly burning his wrists at his struggle to get free. He ignored the pain it caused, being nothing compared to the immense pain his upper body was in.

"You can pull at your rope all day but there's only one way you're getting out of this, only one way you and your friends get out free and alive, and that is if you answer my questions," the Captain said, still watching him with narrowed eyes and a grin on his lips that made D'artagnan's stomach twist. D'artagnan gritted his teeth in anger, glaring at the Captain before pulling at the rope once more to show Antonio his words meant nothing. The Captain simply chuckled at him, pulling out his knife and twisting it effortless through his fingers before he started to pace in front of the hanging musketeer.

They were being held in a Spanish camp a couple of miles away from where the musketeers had been ambushed late yesterday evening, D'artagnan and six other musketeers being taken as prisoners by the Spanish.

The sun was now shining through the trees, lighting up the forest floor and showing that noon was nearly upon them. He and the other musketeers hadn't gotten any sleep, interrogated all night and all morning. However, D'artagnan had managed to take Antonio's attention away from his brothers and primarily on him instead. He couldn't watch the younger musketeers suffer when he could do something about it, so with a sarcastic comment D'artagnan had found himself hanging from a tree with Antonio's attention on him and only him.

"You should have just killed us back there when you had the chance," D'artagnan said as Antonio went to sit down on a log opposite him.

"You think?" He asked back, glancing up from his knife and pointing it sharply at D'artagnan. Antonio then stretched his legs out, cracking his back in the process to ease his muscles.

"You're men are no threat to me if they fight like you," Antonio began and D'artagnan gritted his teeth, digging his nails into his palms to restrain his anger. "I simply need you to answer my questions, which after a long night of no talking seems like it will take a while," Antonio said before glancing at the other musketeers that sat on the ground. "Unless I ask one of you," he said, speaking directly to them. They all diverted their gaze, looking anywhere but at the Captain and hoping not to be chosen to answer.

"Leave them be," D'artagnan warned, relaxing his hands once his muscles in his arms began to ache even more. "They cannot answer your questions," he added, knowing that the younger musketeers knew nothing of France's battle plans. He was the only one that could answer honestly and Antonio knew that, the man was just playing some sick game to get at D'artagnan.

"Then answer my questions or I'll start narrowing the numbers," Antonio said and D'artagnan straightened up as much as he could in the awkward position he was in.

"Your threats don't scare me," D'artagnan said and Antonio sighed, looking down at the ground before running a hand through his hair and glancing back up at D'artagnan. He narrowed his eyes and set his jaw, deciding to change his tactics.

"But they scare them," Antonio then said, turning his knife to the point at the young musketeers but keeping his eyes locked with D'artagnan, a silent battle occurring between them. "It seems my men haven't tried hard enough with you," he then said when D'artagnan didn't seem to be backing down.

He stood up from the log before suddenly lunging at D'artagnan, pressing his knife hard against the musketeer's neck and drawing blood.

"You will answer my questions whether you like it or not. Eventually your body will give up on you, your mind will play tricks and then, you'll easily tell me what I want to know," Antonio snarled and D'artagnan gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain the knife against his neck was causing him.

"How many French soldiers are in Spanish territory?" He asked and D'artagnan stayed silent, setting his jaw and keeping a glare fixed on Antonio. "How many parties do you have south of the border?" And again, Antonio was met with silence. "Which route do the French next mean to take to get supplies to your men?" He asked and D'artagnan finally let a small smirk slip onto his lips. Time to play the game, he thought.

"Routes?" D'artagnan asked, dropping the smirk and pretending to think. "Well, there are many as I'm sure you know, being a Captain yourself. The musketeers could use the last one we had set, or maybe the one we came up with a week ago or a completely new one that I have no means of knowing since I'm currently hung up in a tree," he said with sarcasm laced thickly in his voice. He gave the Captain his best dull and unimpressed look that even Athos would be proud of it.

Antonio narrowed his eyes at D'artagnan, tightening his grip on his knife and studying D'artagnan with such fury that the musketeer could feel it radiating for him. Antonio then sighed and leant back, not drawing himself into D'artagnan's tricks and removing his knife from the man's neck instead.

The musketeer let out a silent sigh, allowing himself to breathe deeply now the restriction of the knife had disappeared. He then relaxed slightly, trying to roll his shoulders as best he could to try and ease the growing stiffness of his muscles.

He locked eyes with Antonio, seeing the frustration rising within the Captain's eyes and feeling a small sense of victory against the Spaniard. He held the Captain's glare to show he was no man for backing down so easily, waiting for Antonio to pull away instead.

"Your friends here and back at your camp won't last long; I will make sure of it. Trust me on that D'artagnan," Antonio said, turning away from him and looking down at the other musketeers, who all tensed from the Captain's harsh eyes scanning over them all.

"The French Captain won't let you get away with this," D'artagnan simply said in a matter of fact tone, knowing Athos and his brothers would get their revenge on the Spaniards.

"Take away the four heroic musketeers and there is no fight," he said, turning away from the prisoners to fully face D'artagnan again.

"You underestimate them," D'artagnan replied, his voice low in a warning as his lips curved up into a small smirk. He was putting up an intimidating front, however it didn't seem to faze the Spanish Captain.

"You underestimate my powers," Antonio grinned back and D'artagnan took a deep breath, trying to control his anger that threatened to surface as his smirk dropped from his lips. Antonio waved a hand towards D'artagnan lazily and three men came running over from their posts as guard around the small camp, coming to a stand by their Captain and waiting for orders.

"Do with him as you will, just make sure he's alive at the end of it," Antonio said, clearly bored with trying to trick D'artagnan into speaking and decided brute force was the better option. The three men glanced at each other before they turned in unison to look at D'artagnan.

The musketeer straightened up as best he could, taking in a shaky breath as he prepared his already aching body for what was about to come. He had been beaten up before, taken a few hits while in the musketeer regiment from his enemies as well as his friends. Porthos had simply stated he needed to ready for a situation like the one he was currently in, both Aramis and Porthos not pulling their punches while sparring in the yard. He knew the beating was going to hurt, knew blood would be drawn just from the looks the three Spaniards had on their faces.

They stepped forward and D'artagnan was hit with a heavy blow to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him the second the knuckles had slammed against him. He had to admit it hurt; there was no denying that the heavily built Spaniard could throw a powerful punch. Just as D'artagnan had managed to catch his breath back, he grunted as a different guard slammed a fist against his jaw and caused his head to snap to one side.

Another swift punch and D'artagnan's ribs screamed, the pain causing him to wince as he sucked in air quickly before it was knocked out of him once more. One of the guards pulled out a knife and swung, slicing a deep cut along the side of D'artagnan's face and causing blood to trickle down to his neck.

He was then punched once again in the face, his head snapping back and hitting the tree behind him hard. His vision blurred as he swung back and forth slightly from the branch, the pounding in his head increasing dramatically. He tried to focus on his breathing and ignore the pain that ran through his body, blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision. However, everything went in and out of focus as another punch was aimed his way.

"That's enough," Antonio suddenly called after the fourth punch was landed across D'artagnan's face. The musketeer looked up at Antonio through one eye, his other swelling and throbbing in pain. He could taste his blood running down from his broken nose onto his busted lips, his breathing heavy as his whole body slumped in defeat.

Antonio then walked over, his men suddenly moving back to give him room.

"I'll show you mercy only because I'm impressed by your bravery to stand up to me," he said as he walked over to stop in front of D'artagnan. He grabbed D'artagnan by the hair and pulled his head back, forcing D'artagnan to look at him. He let a smile slip onto his lips as he studied D'artagnan's bruised and bloody face, happy to see the musketeer suffering. He moved his head so his lips were inches away from D'artagnan's ear.

"You will break," Antonio whispered low, his warm breath brushing against D'artagnan ear and running down the side of his neck. It took everything in D'artagnan's power to suppress the shiver that wanted to run down his spine.

Antonio then dropped his grip from D'artagnan's hair, the musketeer's head falling to rest on his chest. The Captain then straightened out his clothes before giving D'artagnan one last smile and disappearing out of sight.

"Guard him," he ordered his three men who quickly responded by circling around D'artagnan. He knew the musketeer was clever, knew he would try to find a way out of his bindings even in his current beaten state. "It's going to be a long day my friend," Antonio called over his shoulder at D'artagnan before entering his tent, leaving D'artagnan to stew in his injuries.

TBC...


	2. The Struggle

The moment replayed in all their minds as they sat at the table, slumped in defeat in the Captain's tent. It was like some sick nightmare that tormented them all, not allowing them any peace.

It had hit Athos hard. He had been so close, so close to D'artagnan and to dragging him back. However, the young Gascon had managed to easily slip through his fingers. The thought of losing his brother dragged Athos back to that dark place within a heartbeat, the pit of self-loathing and self-hatred calling his name as he blamed himself for what had happened.

"D'artagnan!" Athos shouted as he swung his sword at the closest Spaniard. He glanced over to where the younger musketeer was trying to take on five men at the same time to only see him go down, hitting the ground hard. The musketeers closest to D'artagnan suddenly jumped into action, trying their hardest to get to their fallen brother but only finding that they were dramatically out-numbered and out-skilled by the enemy.

"D'artagnan!" Athos shouted again, trying to get over to D'artagnan who laid still on the ground. He forced himself not to the think of the worst, not allowing himself to admit defeat. D'artagnan was not dead.

Athos grunted as he quickly blocked an oncoming blow to his side, his attention drawn back to his fight as gritted his teeth from the force of sword hitting sword. He pushed back, causing the Spaniard he was dueling to stumble slightly and Athos quickly took advantage of the man's poor footwork. He swung his sword across the attacker's chest, making him collapse to the ground with a cry and drop his sword.

Athos quickly looked back to see that D'artagnan and the other musketeers had been overthrown, each of them being swung over the Spaniard's awaiting horses, D'artagnan hanging face first over the front of the Spanish Captain's horse. Athos took off running, heart pounding against his chest while his hand gripped his sword tightly, wanting anything to drive the blade through the Captain's chest for trying to take his men.

"Retreat!" Their Captain shouted and his men gathered their reins, kicking their horses to start pounding down the path and away from the Musketeers.

Athos was a second away from making it to the Captain's horse, a foot away from grabbing D'artagnan and pulling him back. However, a musket ball to the shoulder stopped him in his tracks, sending him stumbling backwards to the ground with a heavy grunt. The Spanish Captain smirked down at him from his steady horse, one hand holding a smoking pistol while the other pulled at the horse's reins.

Athos groan as he rolled over onto his front and pushed up onto all fours, the Captain circling him once as if to torment him before taking off down the path. The horse's hooves slammed hard against the ground, kicking up dust and causing Athos to cough as his lungs filled.

With the remaining strength he had left he pulled out his pistol, his left arm to only buckle underneath him from the pain and send him down to the ground on his front. He aimed his pistol along the ground with his right arm, finger steady on the trigger and one eye closed as he tried to focus. However, his vision blurred in and out making it almost impossible to get a clear shot. He fired anyway, a pointless shot but it was worth the try. The musket ball hit the ground a few feet away, and if Athos wasn't busy trying to suppress his cries of pain he would have swore at himself for the awfully poor shot.

He dropped his smoking pistol and could only watch in agony as D'artagnan and six of his men were dragged away, disappearing into the forest.He let his head to fall to the ground, forehead coming to rest in the dirt as he balled his fists up in anger.

He was gone.

D'artagnan was gone and Athos had just let it happen.

He slowly rolled onto his back, letting out a groan as his injured shoulder hit the ground a little less gracefully than he had wanted. Knowing there was no hope in catching up with the men on their horses, Athos let out a growl of frustration. He was angry beyond belief with himself that he had let D'artagnan slip through his fingers. However, the anger and adrenaline soon died down to be replaced with white hot pain, blood soaking his leather jacket from his wound that was beginning to make itself well known.

He squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a heavy breath through gritted teeth as he hoped to God the ball had gone through clean. Athos heard rushed footsteps coming over to him and felt the presence of his two brothers, both slowing to a stop on either side of him.

"How many?" Aramis asked as he skidded down onto his knees next to Athos, glancing towards the spot where the Spaniards had just disappeared within the trees.

"S-seven...including D'artagnan," he breathed, trying to stop his voice from cracking as he relived the moment D'artagnan had fallen to the ground. He had been so close, he could have stopped it… He could have saved his brother- He should have saved his brother.

Porthos ripped his bandanna off, throwing it to the ground in frustration while letting out a low growl. His hands then balled up into fists as he came to kneel down on the other side of Athos with a heavy thud.

"We need to go after them," Athos said, pushing up to only cry out from the burning pain that flared up from his shoulder. Porthos' hand was suddenly on his right shoulder, gently pushing him back down to the ground as he swallowed down his concern for his injured brother.

"First, I need to fix you up," Aramis said, pulling Athos' leather jacket open to reveal the wound. He grimaced before gently lifting Athos, feeling around the Captain's back for an exit wound. "Went clean through," Aramis then stated and both Porthos and Athos let out a sigh of relief.

The Captain closed his eyes briefly, thankful he wouldn't have to endure the painful process of having a musket ball removed. He took a breath before opening his eyes to meet Aramis' glistening ones. Aramis' eyes were filled with tears that he was trying to hold back, needing to stay focused on helping Athos but suffering from the loss of their brother at the same time.

"We need to get you back to the camp so I can fix you up properly," Aramis said as he applied pressure to the wound to try and stop the bleeding.

"But D'artagnan..." Porthos began but wondered off, his eyes moving from Athos' weak state to stare at the spot his other brother had once been.

Aramis let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes as he forced the tears back. He regained himself, knowing he had to stay strong. His main focus was to fix Athos up; he couldn't lose another brother that evening.

He leant over and grabbed Porthos' abandoned bandanna before tying it tightly around Athos' shoulder. It was a poor excuse of a bandage but it would work at stopping the bleeding for now.

"Let's get you up," he said before Athos gritted his teeth, allowing his two brothers to help him stand. Once steady on his feet Athos let out the breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

The other musketeers were slowly trying to busy themselves, a few checking the bodies on the ground, both French and Spanish, while others simply stood, breathing heavy from the fight with blood and dust covering their faces and clothes.

"We'll find him," Porthos then said to try and reassure not only his two brothers but himself too. Aramis simply lifted his free hand to grab his cross that hung around his neck, sending out a silent pray to God to bring their brother back to them unharmed.

Athos just stared blankly at the place where D'artagnan had just been, feeling as though he had let not only D'artagnan down but also the two brothers that we're currently holding him up.

"What do we do?" Porthos suddenly asked from where he sat at the table, elbows resting on the wooden top. Athos sighed, looking up from where he held his head in his right hand, trying to figure out the letter he was currently failing to write. He looked up at Porthos to meet the larger man's gaze before suddenly looking back down at the table and at the maps the covered most of it.

"We have scouts looking for Spanish camps in the surrounding area," Athos said, gesturing a hand over the area on the map their camp was. "Until we have a location, we can't really do anything regrading getting D'artagnan and the rest of them back," Athos said, straightening up as he spoke and forcing himself to look up at Porthos, seeing the pain his words caused the musketeer.

"So we just sit here and wait?" Aramis asked, his anger showing through the tension in his shoulders and his slightly raised voice.

"What else do you want me to do?" He asked with a slight irritated tone, looking over at Aramis and trying to keep his anger in check. The marksman stayed silent, knowing that the worst thing he could do in this situation was to start questioning Athos.

The Captain then turned away, rolling his left shoulder slightly to test the movement he could have without the pain flaring up too dramatically. Aramis had done his best with cleaning the wound out and stitching Athos back up, his left arm currently resting in a makeshift sling with his shoulder bandaged up.

He let out a long sigh before looking back down at the letter in front of him. There were a few crumbled up balls of paper scattered across the table, started and failed attempts of letters to Constance. Athos couldn't seem to find the rights words to tell Constance that her husband was currently in the hands of the Spanish.

He had written the letter to Treville, telling them D'artagnan and six of their men, six talented and brave but such young men, had been taken. He had also written to the families of the six missing musketeers, telling them he was sorry for what had happened and hoped to return them home safely.

However, now looking down at the words on the paper, he struggled to get it right for Constance. Everything he wrote seemed to be too impersonal and formal, as if it had no feeling to it and that he hadn't known her for years. He wanted to convey to her how sorry he was but a simple "I'm sorry, we're trying our best to bring him back" just didn't suffice in Athos' opinion.

Aramis watched Athos' mental struggle before looking sideways to his other brother, glancing up to see Porthos' expression was one of pain and sorrow. He knew they were all finding it difficult, knew D'artagnan was struggling the most. The not knowing what the Spaniard's were doing to their brother getting to them, making them picture horrific things that the enemy could be doing to D'artagnan to gain information from him.

He heard Athos growl in frustration, screwing up the letter with his right hand into a ball before starting again. His writing scribbled across the page effortlessly before pausing, his mind ticking away as he tried to think of what to write next.

None of them had been able to eat, too sick with worry for their missing brothers. Athos hadn't drunk anything since they had returned to camp last night, not even wine to ease his aching shoulder. He hadn't slept either, having paced at the tent entrance all night and ignoring how he needed rest to deal with his injury. Aramis and Porthos had tried to get some sleep. However, neither of them had been able to, lying awake and listening to Athos' footsteps as they tried to not to think of the worst for D'artagnan and the rest of the now prisoners.

The flap to the tent opened and one of the newest musketeers paused at the entrance, frightened to come in as he took in their expressions and the tension that hung thick in the air.

"What is it?" Athos asked, not looking up from the letter he was still trying to write.

"The prisoners are getting frustrated, they're starting to fight between themselves," he informed them, standing tall with a hand on the hilt of the sword by his side. They had managed to take in three prisoners who had been sent by the Spanish Captain as informants to try and gain information on France's battle plans. Let's just say D'artagnan had caught them and gave them a piece of his mind.

"Let them," Athos bluntly replied and the younger musketeer swallowed, preparing himself for what he was about to say next.

"I was just wondering if we could spare some food for them, scraps from this morning's meal," the musketeer said and Athos paused to look up at him. He saw the goodness in the man's eyes, the purity that which the war hadn't just quite yet torn from him.

The Captain took a breath, seeing how his anger and tiredness were taking over from his duty. He had to allow the men food; he could only hope the Spanish Captain would do the same for his musketeer prisoners.

"Of course, see to it at once. Make sure they get water as well," he said, this time much less forceful and the younger musketeer nodded before exiting quickly. The tent flap swung closed and Athos glanced back down, trying to force down the headache that was slowly building. "We need to plan a different supply route. I won't allow the Spanish to ambush more of my men," Athos then said, drawing himself away from the letter that he knew was a failure for now.

The Spanish had ambushed a few of their supply routes to the front, which only added to more soldiers weakening. With limited amount of food and gunpowder, they were slowly losing against the enemy. After the Spanish had attacked a French supply route, they had then turned back on themselves to try and take out Athos' group, ambushing them yesterday as the musketeers headed out to try and gain back French land. Athos and the rest of his men were getting frustrated with their slow movement, knowing they needed to gain more land or risk losing the war.

"I'll send a letter out to Treville with a new plan," Porthos said, his voice dull as if he had no life or energy left within him. He made to stand, scooping up the six sealed letters along with the one to Treville before exiting the tent, heading out to organise a new supply route with the General.

Aramis slid across the bench to take up Porthos' empty seat, sitting opposite Athos who simply looked up at him with a tired expression on his face, right hand slowly massaging his numb left shoulder.

"I can help if you want," Aramis said, gesturing to the letter that was half finished. Athos simply turned the paper around to face Aramis and allowed him to tackle it instead. "It's hard, I know that," Aramis began, glancing up at Athos before he continued writing. "But you can't let yourself think it was your fault," he added and Athos sighed, never amazed at how well his brothers knew him or how they could tell what he was thinking about in a heartbeat.

"I ordered our group to head forward, regain the land we let slip to only be ambushed on the way out, pushed back further and lose seven good-great soldiers. How is it not my fault?" Athos asked, his voice low and eyes sharp as he looked at Aramis.

"You didn't know the Spanish were waiting for us on the road," Aramis said, trying to stop Athos from beating himself up and spiraling into the pit of self-hatred he was slowly falling into.

"I'm the Captain, Aramis. I was so close to stopping the bastard Spaniard but I failed. I have to take responsibility for the loss," Athos said as they both felt the pain of losing D'artagnan to the Spanish.

"Not all of it though," Aramis then said, glancing up from the letter and giving Athos a knowing look. "Just because you're the Captain doesn't mean you have to take on this entire burden. Blaming yourself won't get us anywhere and it's not like you could have stopped them. Remember, you did get shot," he said and Athos titled his head up slightly, allowing Aramis' words to sink in. "We'll find them Athos," Aramis finished and Athos glanced away, looking down at the maps to busy himself.

"Let's hope," he simply said before pouring himself into finding out where the Spanish Captain could possibly be camping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and the comments, glad to know you are enjoying this little story. The next chapter will be up pretty soon. Please review and tell me what you thought. Thanks again for the nice feedback, until the next chapter :)


	3. The Game

D'artagnan studied the guards around him, watching for when they changed posts to find any patterns. He had noticed a ten second gap between the evening guard taking over from the noon one. However it was pointless hoping for an escape, there were too many men station around the edge of the small camp for them to slip by unnoticed.

He had been working the rope around his wrists for a good hour now and there was still no sign in it loosening. He knew his wrists would be cut and bloody, the burning pain flaring up across his skin indicating it. He also knew Aramis was going to kill him when the marksman found out D'artagnan had be inflicting pain upon himself even in his current weaken state.

He knew all hopes of escaping would be fruitless if he didn't narrow down the numbers of the Spaniards stood guard around them, watching the musketeers with harsh eyes and waiting for one of them to make a move.

He glanced down at the musketeers sat to the left of him, all still bundled up together with their heads hung low. All expect Beaumont who was staring daggers at the closest guard, wanting nothing more than to kill the Spaniard with his bare hands.

D'artagnan tried to shift his position, gripping the rope above him to twist it around in his hands and pull himself up gently in hopes to ease his aching muscles, even if it was only for a few seconds. He dropped again with a soft grunt to cause himself to swing forwards and backwards slightly, his aching shoulders tensing violently from the sudden movement.

He tried opening his right eye, the throbbing having died down slightly after the beating he had gotten a few hours ago. However, he knew a black eye was slowly forming and making its ugly mark upon his face. The blood from his cut on his cheek had dried, having ran down his neck and stained his collar. His ribs were still protesting against him, the constant strain on them from his hanging body kept them from healing properly.

He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain he was in and trying to focus his mind on more important things. The evening guard slowly walked past, giving him a glance before looking at the others, slowly circling them like they were prey and he the predator.

The sun was slowly setting, brightening up the surroundings with a soft amber glow. One of Antonio's men was setting up a fire a few meters away from the prisoners, warming his hands up once the flames had risen high enough.

A flap of a tent and the sound of boots on the leaf covered ground broke D'artagnan from his thoughts. He glanced up to see the Captain mumbling orders to one of his men, who then nodded and walked off to carry out his duties.

"How are the shoulders? Feeling stiff yet?" Antonio asked, glancing towards D'artagnan with a small yet smug smile on his face.

"No, they're good thanks," D'artagnan replied, using Athos' normally dry tone which only caused Antonio's smile to grow, his lips curled up menacingly.

"You amuse me D'artagnan," the Captain said, sitting on the log opposite him on the other side of the fire. "Your strength is one of great fascinations," he said, watching D'artagnan through narrowed eyes. "I wonder when that will slip." And D'artagnan gritted his teeth, seeing Antonio glance towards one of the younger musketeers, Philippes.

"I've told you that they know nothing," D'artagnan spoke up, drawing the Captain's eyes back towards him and away from the others.

"And you know everything?" He asked, pointing at D'artagnan and pushing for a rise from him. He had to admit, he had walked straight into that. However, he didn't let the Captain faze him, holding his head high as he replied.

"Everything that is of value to you," he replied with a smirk, making sure to keep the Captain's attention on himself and not on the others. They truly knew nothing and D'artagnan wouldn't let Antonio get to them. He couldn't watch them be pressed for answers when they could give none.

"Which is why I should keep you alive, right?" The Captain asked, standing up and walking around the fire. He came to a stop in front of D'artagnan's hanging form and looked him up and down. D'artagnan glanced at the Captain wearily, trying to figure out what game Antonio was playing this evening. "And if they know nothing then why should I waste my valuable food supply on them?" Antonio asked and D'artagnan swore at himself for letting the Captain get the upper hand.

"Because if kill them, then you'll have to kill me too before you get any answers," D'artagnan said and Antonio let a small smile appear on his face, impressed at how the musketeer had handled the question.

"I could just slit your throat right here, right in front of your men. Or I could let you hang, leave you tied up here for a slow and painful death. Decisions like these aren't my strongest I have to admit," Antonio said, apparently going for a more threatening approach this evening. D'artagnan raised an eyebrow at the Captain, who simply smiled before moving towards the other musketeers, a knife slipping out from behind his back and twisting it around his fingers.

"But now I know you value these men over your own life, I'm sure I can manage to get some answers from you," he said, stopping in front of the musketeers who glanced up at the Captain. Each one quickly looked away, hoping not to get chosen. Antonio noticed Beaumont holding himself strong and chuckled at the musketeers determination, before he crouched low in front of the closest musketeer, Philippes, the youngest of the group.

The boy jumped slightly as the Captain grabbed his hair, pulling his head back roughly to press the knife against his now exposed neck. He winced under the pull against his hair, trying to stop a whimper that was trying to escape from his lips

D'artagnan stiffened, fear suddenly gripping him as he watched on, carefully trying to assess the situation and which way he should play it. Clearly, the Captain was not a patient man and would do anything to get answers.

Philippes' eyes went wide in horror at the thought of dying in a Spanish camp, tensing slightly due to the Captain's presence so close it him. He trembled slightly as the knife was pressed harder against his neck, causing him to grit his teeth from the pain. Blood leaked onto the cool blade, some slowly running down his neck to stain the collar of his shirt.

"Now I have your attention, how many French parties are within Spanish territory?" Antonio asked. However, D'artagnan didn't look away from Philippes, their eyes locked and speaking a silent conversation between the two of them. Philippes set his jaw, determination suddenly setting in his eyes to tell D'artagnan to not back down. No matter what Antonio did to him he would not back down, he was prepared to have the worst brought down on him if it meant protecting the crown and country.

"I don't like repeat the myself," the Captain said and the blade pressed harder, causing Philippes breath to catch in his throat and squeeze his eyes shut in pain. At that, D'artagnan saw the boy crumble slightly, the determination that was there a second ago having now vanished and replaced with pure fear of dying. The Captain sighed at D'artagnan's silence, removing the knife before slamming a fist against Philippes jaw, causing his head to snap to one side. He then grabbed the musketeer by the hair again, pulling his head back and once more placing the knife against Philippes' already bleeding neck.

"Okay," D'artagnan suddenly said, not being able to allow any more pain to come to Philippes over his own stubbornness. "I'll answer your question, just leave him be," D'artagnan then said and Antonio let a small smile creep onto his lips, knowing he now had a way to get the Gascon.

He suddenly removed the blade from Philippes' neck and pushed the young musketeer forward. Philippes fell to the ground, his tied hands unable to stop his fall. He grunted on the impact before letting out a shaky breath, finally allowing his lungs to fill now he didn't have the restriction of the knife against his neck.

"How many?" The Captain asked, moving over to stand in front of D'artagnan. He glanced at Philippes who had managed to pull himself up with the help of a fellow musketeer, Duval.

"Seven," he finally said, looking back at Antonio and the man gave him a smile that made D'artagnan sick to the core.

"That wasn't so hard now was it," he said, wiping the blade of his knife clean on D'artagnan shoulder, Philippes' blood staining his shirt. "Now, where are these parties camping?" he asked, slipping his now clean knife behind his back.

"I said I'd answer your question, not questions... Only one," D'artagnan said, slightly cocky with his way of playing the Captain's game. Antonio let out a soft chuckle in response, impressed by D'artagnan's wit.

"I suppose you're right," he said before dropping the subject and moving back over to the fire, happy that he was slowly breaking the musketeer.

However, Antonio knew nothing about D'artagnan. He didn't know how stubborn he could be, or how determined he was in protecting the musketeers that sat next to him. D'artagnan was far from breaking, he's only just beginning to play the game.

* * *

 

Porthos returned a few hours later, the sun hanging low in the sky, having met up with one of the couriers who took letters to Paris. He had told the man to take an alternative route in fear of the Spanish intercepting him; the man had nodded before riding out, the letters secure in his breast pocket.

When Porthos walked into the tent he found Athos stood up at the table, pouring over the maps with a finger tracing across one of their supply routes. The man wouldn't stop working, even when he was shot he still kept pushing on with every ounce of effort he had left.

Porthos heard a soft snore sound from his left and glanced over to see Aramis fast asleep, face down on the bed and arms spread across the thin bedding. How on earth the marksman could sleep peacefully in wired positions always seemed to be an unanswered question for his brothers.

"He's only just fallen asleep," Athos informed him, drawing the larger musketeer's gaze away from Aramis and towards him. "You should get some rest as well," he then added, knowing none of them had been able to sleep last night. "I've organised for a scouting party later this evening to go out near the river. One of our informative's got word of a Spanish party setting up camp there for the night. I was hoping you and Aramis would lead the group," Athos said, not looking up from the maps he had now spent a few long hours staring down at.

"You think D'artagnan and the others are being held there?" Porthos asked, moving to sit opposite where Athos stood. The Captain let out a painful sigh before glancing up at his friend, the sorrow in his eyes showing his doubts.

"It's too close. Their Captain wouldn't risk setting up camp there in fear of us finding them and taking back our men," Athos said, finally sitting down before rubbing his face with his free hand. He couldn't look at the maps anymore, it all seeming to blur into a scrambled mess. "You sent the letters out successfully?" Athos then asked, dropping his hand and hoping to take both their minds of their missing brothers.

"Yes, I told Treville to take an alternative route for the supplies to the front," Porthos informed Athos who nodded before looking up at his friend. He could see Porthos was dealing with the loss just as hard as Aramis and him, the bags under his eyes slowly making themselves know and the tension in his shoulders still set strong.

Porthos studied the maps, feeling Athos' eyes on him but deciding to ignore the man's gaze. He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching his back slightly to ease the aching in his muscles.

His mind slipped to D'artagnan, hoping that he was safe and unharmed. However that was wishful thinking, knowing for certain that D'artagnan was in danger and probably being interrogated this second. He knew his brother wasn't dead though, being too much of value to the Spanish.

However, it didn't stop him from worrying. He didn't know how he would cope, how his brothers or how Constance would cope if D'artagnan was killed by his captors. Yet Porthos allowed the thought of the Spanish needing D'artagnan alive to ease his racing mind... Only slightly however.

"Sleep," Athos then said, breaking Porthos from his thoughts as the Captain suddenly stood. "And that's an order," he added when Porthos didn't start making a move from the table. The larger musketeer allowed a small smile to creep onto his lips at Athos' way of showing he cared.

"Right away Captain," Porthos said before standing and making his way over to his bed. Athos moved to fix himself something to eat, the growling from his stomach finally winning the battle against him.

Porthos let out a sigh as he flopped down onto the bed next to Aramis, shifting slightly to face his sleeping brother.

He watched Aramis sleep, seeing the man at peace slowly eased the pain and worry Porthos was in. He turned to lay on his back and stared up at the tent's ceiling, fully intent on staying awake for a while. However, before he knew it he was suddenly being shaken from his slumber by Aramis.

His brother grinned down at him as he blinked his eyes open, Aramis flashing his teeth before patting Porthos on the shoulder.

"You snore louder when you're on your back," Aramis stated before straightening up and moving away from the bed. Porthos groaned, feeling disorientated from the rude and sudden awakening. He pulled himself up to sit while rubbing his face as Aramis shrugged on his leather jacket.

"I don't snore," Porthos grumbled in response and Aramis simply turned, giving him a raised eyebrow before moving to pick up his sword.

"Yes you do," Athos suddenly said, entering the tent and glancing at Porthos with a small smirk on his lips. Aramis chuckled at the larger musketeer's blank expression before moving over to pick at the scraps of food Athos had left on his plate at the table.

"The soldiers are waiting at the entrance of the camp for you both, your horses await with them," Athos informed them and Porthos rolled off the bed, stretching his back once stood. Aramis nodded, picking at the bread on the plate and popping some into his mouth before glancing over at Porthos.

"Ready?" He then asked after swallowing Athos' food and Porthos nodded, checking his pistols. Athos walked over to them, placing his right hand on Aramis' shoulder and meeting his eyes.

"Stay safe," he said and Aramis gave him a small smile before pulling him into a gentle hug, being weary of Athos' injured shoulder. It was quick embrace but it was all that was needed. Athos pulled away and drew Porthos into a hug before they began walking in silence towards the front of the camp as a threesome, slowly realising it should have been foursome instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Aramis and Porthos are on a mission, let's hope that goes well ;) Thank you for the kudos and especially the reviews, which make me get these chapters out quicker. Tell me what you thought of this one, hope it was good.


	4. The Letter

After watching his friends leave, Athos turned and walked back through the camp. He walked with his head held high and his back straight, moving with confidence when all he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep. However, he was the Captain and he had a duty to check on his men before retiring to his tent later that evening, when the sun was just setting.

With a heavy heart he sunk to the table, the bottle of wine gripped tightly in one hand while he stared at the empty cup in front of him. He simply stared at it for a few more seconds before lifting the bottle to use his teeth to pull the cork out. Spitting the cork out to land on the table, he poured himself a greedy amount of wine into his cup, not caring that he spilt a few drops onto the maps.

He rested the bottle back down on the table, easing his grip from it before moving to pick up his cup. He swirled the red liquid around slightly, watching as the wine rose up dangerously to the edge of the cup before setting it back down on the table.

He wished he was out with his two brothers, fighting the small battle that would hopefully get them one more step to finding their missing brothers. However, he knew he would only be a burden with his injured shoulder and he also had to figure out battle plans with the General early in the morning.

He sighed, his free hand coming to run through his hair and tug at the knots slightly. The smell of wine had finally hit his nostrils, easing his senses and calming his mind slightly. However much he pined for the wine he didn't bring the cup to his lips, knowing one drink would lead to another and he wouldn't be able to pull himself back from that place... That dark place he had been to too many times. His hand moved to grip the cup once more, struggling to stop himself from lifting it to his lips.

He had to keep his mind clear and focused even when he was running on pure willpower to stay awake. His mind was racing, trying to think of one clear thing and failing dramatically; his thoughts were with his two brothers, hoping they found something of use from their small mission. Then they were on Constance, knowing she would be getting his letter early morning tomorrow. D'artagnan then slipped into his thoughts, causing his grip on the cup to tighten as he tried to push the image of himself running after his brother to the back of his mind and failing miserably at it.

He couldn't push passed the fact that he still felt responsible for it all. He should have known the Spanish would have been waiting for them; it was never that easy in war. And watching his brother get carried away and not being able to do anything about it... Well, let's just say it made Athos so desperately want to enter that dark place the wine took him.

So, without thinking of his duties, he lifted the cup and downed the contents within four large gulps. It ran down his throat and eased his racing mind as well as the pain from his shoulder, the taste of the wine bringing a somewhat sense of calm over him. It felt familiar, the cup in his hand, the wine buzzing through him. However, it lacked the hustle and bustle of the local tavern, or of his three friends sat surrounding him with smiles on their faces as Porthos won D'artagnan in yet another game of cards, draining the poor boy of his hard earned money.

He slowly removed the makeshift sling Aramis had instructed him to wear for at least a week. He dropped the material to the table and his eyes landed on the open bottle of wine. He pained for another, however he grabbed the cork and pushed it back in place, stopping himself.

He then began rolling his shoulder, testing the pain and regretting instantly as it flared up with vengeance. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as his right hand massaged gently at the healing skin, it easing the tightness of his muscles.

Athos was not a praying man, always allowing that stuff to Aramis and never himself. However, that night as he laid in bed after what felt like a good few hours tracing routes up and easing his aching shoulder, he let himself send a small pray to God for his brother's safe return.

It was anything but a pray in Athos' opinion, a sorry excuse for one that he was sure, if there was a God, He would simply ignore it.

It was worth a shot though, Athos thought as he closed his eyes, the lack of sleep finally catching up on him and sending him to sleep within seconds after closing his eyes.

* * *

 

Aramis and Porthos rode ahead of the small group of musketeers, leading the way to the river where the Spanish should hopefully be camped.

The sun was falling and the limited amount of sleep they both had gotten was slowly catching up to them.

They set up camp and Aramis and Porthos went to scout ahead. They got to the river a few minutes later, crawling up the steep banking to look down below, seeing their informative was right about the Spanish camp. They laid down on the banking on their stomachs to limit the chance of the two of them being seen.

"We're not attacking them when they're asleep Porthos," Aramis warned, memories of Savoy flickering through his mind. He took a breath to control his emotions, reminding himself that he wasn't there. This wasn't Savoy.

Porthos glanced over at him, sensing his friend's tension. He studied Aramis, seeing his expression as he watched the Spanish camp. He could only imagine what Aramis was thinking; only imagine the images of Savoy running through his friend's mind that was bringing such pain to his face.

"They're the enemy Aramis," Porthos tried to reason with the man, however he knew it was a losing battle.

"So were we," Aramis said, not even giving Porthos a glance in his direction.

"Fine, then we wait until the morning," Porthos simply replied and Aramis took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment before looking at his friend. "Besides, the musketeers need some rest... And so do we," Porthos then added. It may have sounded like an excuse but they both knew they needed the break, better to attack the Spanish at full strength then deprived of sleep.

"Good," Aramis simply said before looking back at the camp, most of the Spaniards having gone to sleep now. They laid there for a while, both studying the camp and the Spanish's watch patterns.

"You think one of them will know where the Captain's camp is? Or at least which way they were heading?" Porthos then asked, thoughts of D'artagnan taking over.

"We'll find out soon enough," Aramis said, wondering where D'artagnan was and what the Spanish Captain was doing to him. "He's strong," he then said, knowing Porthos was fearing for their missing brother. "He can handle himself," to which Porthos hummed in agreement.

"I just hope his mouth doesn't get him into trouble," the larger musketeer said and Aramis let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly.

"We all know that it will," Aramis said and Porthos smirked at the man's words, knowing D'artagnan would run his mouth no matter how threatening the Spanish Captain was.

Aramis then leant backwards to be able to clap Porthos on the back, both softly smiling at each other and forcing down the pain they felt for D'artagnan.

"We better get going," Aramis then said before crawling down the banking backwards, Porthos following close behind.

"How are you?" Porthos then asked as they walked slowly back to their small camp. Aramis glanced over at his friend, a small frown on his face to why Porthos would be asking him such a thing.

"Tired, hungry, in need of a good night's rest, missing Paris, missing D'artagnan, missing my bed, the drink and the women," Aramis listed off and Porthos shook his head, a small smile appearing on his lips. "But other than that, I'm just brilliant. Why do you ask?" Aramis questioned.

"Because I care," Porthos said and Aramis glanced up at him, a soft smile curving his lips. He leant over, throwing his arm over Porthos' shoulder to pull the man tightly to his side as they walked. Porthos returned the side hug, the smile on his lips not flattening.

It was a simple and small gesture but it spoke a thousand words between them, each knowing the other was there for them.

* * *

 

Constance walked down the stairs of the garrison, two recruits following her as she listed off orders to them. They both listened intensely before nodding when they got the bottoms of the stairs, rushing off to carry out their duties.

She paused for a moment, taking in the garrison and sighing slightly.

It wasn't the same. The absence of the musketeers lingered over the garrison like a dark cloud. Trainee recruits sparred within the middle of the yard, trying to prove to themselves that they would make it as musketeers.

She glanced over to the entrance to see Sylvie come walking in, hair pulled back into a half ponytail and a soft smile on her face which always made Constance relax. She returned the smile as her friend walked over, her eyes scanning Constance's face.

"How are you feeling?" Constance asked as Sylvie came to a stop in front of her.

"Good actually, better than normal anyway," she said and Constance nodded. Sylvie looked at the other woman, studying her face and smiling softly at her. "What about you?" She then asked, seeing the tiredness in Constance's eyes and how the war, even though it wasn't in Paris, still managed to take its toll on them.

"I'm fine. The boys are getting frustrated though, feeling like they're useless here," Constance said and Sylvie glanced over at the recruits sparring. Their swords met before one pushed backwards, a swing of his sword coming close to his opponent's side.

"They're not musketeers, not yet anyway. There's nothing more they can do except help out within the garrison and keep the peace in the streets," Sylvie said, looking back over at Constance who simply sighed. "Anyway, I came to ask if the garrison could spare some supplies. We're running low and the people are starting to get scared they won't be able to feed their families. Plus with the added impact of the war..." Sylvie wondered off, looking pleadingly at Constance who smiled softly at her.

"I'm sure we can figure something out," Constance said, a hand coming to touch Sylvie's arm to reassure her.

"Thank you Constance, you have a kind heart," she said and Constance shook her head slightly, smiling softly.

"Anything we can do to help the people," she said and Sylvie couldn't put into words how much she appreciated the help.

Sylvie had grown fond of the other woman, seeing her kind nature but also her strength. She admired how Constance could run the garrison without breaking a sweat, especially in these times of war.

"Madame D'artagnan," a man spoke up from the gates, walking over to the two women. "A letter came for you earlier this morning," the man said, holding out the letter to which she took.

"Thank you," she said and the man nodded before turning to leave.

"That's Athos' hand," Sylvie said, noticing his scribbled but delicate writing in a heartbeat. Constance suddenly felt her heart drop, hoping it had been D'artagnan who had written to her. She began to dread the worst as she glanced up at Sylvie. Feeling the woman's fear, Sylvie moved to stand next to her, sliding an arm around her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her.

Constance ripped open the seal and straightened out the letter, scanning the page to see it was half written in Athos' hand and half in Aramis'. She began to read, Sylvie silently reading over her shoulder. She felt her friends arm tighten around her as she read the words.

...and I'm terribly sorry that this has happened to him. It pains me to write this letter Constance, it truly does, but I assure you that we will find him and return him home safely to you...

She let out a shaky breath, one hand coming to cover her mouth as she continued reading, the writing suddenly changing into Aramis'.

Sylvie felt the sting of the words, suddenly feeling for both Constance and the musketeers. She rubbed her hand up and down Constance's arm, showing her friend that she was there for her.

"I need to sit down," Constance suddenly said after finishing the letter. Sylvie nodded, quickly guiding Constance to the table and sitting down next to her.

She stayed silent, studying Constance as the woman gripped the letter tightly. She lifted her hand and took Constance's in hers, squeezing gently to ease the woman's grip of the paper. Constance let out a shaky breath, blinking back the tears and swallowing thickly.

"I know you probably don't need to hear this but he will be fine... Athos and the others will find him," Sylvie said and Constance only nodded, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

Her heart was breaking and the only thing she could do was sit and wait. Wait for another letter to say if D'artagnan had been saved or killed. She had dreaded that she would get a letter to tell her that D'artagnan had been killed at war, it keeping her up most nights while he was away. But she had never thought of him becoming a prisoner of war, it never crossing her mind, not even once. However, now she had the letter in her hands, she couldn't believe how she hadn't thought of it before.

A prisoner of war.

She let her head drop and her free hand came to rub her face, trying to control her emotions. Sylvie simply squeezed her other hand once again, reminding her that she wasn't alone. Constance then looked back up at her friend and their eyes met. Sylvie gave her a soft smile, her thumb running gently over Constance's knuckles to try and calm her.

"He's going to be ok," Constance said, however the tone of her voice betrayed her words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small wait for this chapter, the story is slowly coming along. Thank you for the kudos and the comments, it's good to know you guys are liking this story. Please leave a review with your thoughts on this chapter, I hope Constance and Sylvie weren't too ooc :) More D'artganan whump to come soon.


	5. The Fight

They roared in fury, storming the Spanish camp early in the morning with their swords held high and the horse's hooves pounding hard against the ground. It was an easy take, most of them surrendering to the French with only a few going against them.

Porthos swung his sword, connecting his blade against the Spaniard's side and causing the man to grunt in pain. The Spaniard put up a fight; bringing his sword back around and trying to land a hit against Porthos. However, the musketeer was more skilled and disarmed the man with a simple twist of the wrist, drawing his sword up to the man's neck. The Spaniard quickly held his hands up in surrender and Porthos granted it.

He pushed the Spaniard down onto his knees before a shot rang loud over the few men still fighting. He ducked slightly out of instinct before glancing around, trying to determine who had fired. His eyes were drawn to Aramis and saw him fall backwards, the Spaniard he was dueling against falling too and landing harshly on top of him.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted before he quickly ordered one of the free musketeers to tie the surrendered Spaniard up.

He took off running across the camp, taking out two Spaniards who tried to intercept him. They were foolish enough to think they could come between Aramis and him, not knowing what Porthos could do when one of his brothers went down.

Aramis hadn't moved and neither had the man that laid on top of him. Once he had made it to Aramis he quickly grabbed the Spaniard's shoulder and pulled him off his friend.

His eyes were met with blood and his heart leaped into his throat. For a second he thought Aramis had been the one to get shot, his fingers quickly moving to Aramis' neck to check for a pulse. Suddenly, his hand was swatted away by his brother, Aramis' eyes flickering open to look up at Porthos' concerned expression.

"I'm fine. Not my blood," he said and Porthos dragged his eyes away from Aramis for a second to see the Spaniard laying dead, shot in the stomach, before noticing Aramis' grip on his pistol by his side.  
The larger musketeer suddenly let out a sigh of relief, leaning back on his heels slightly.

"I thought..." He began but his words didn't come, unable to think off what could have happened. He had just lost D'artagnan, he couldn't lose Aramis too.

"I'm here," Aramis then said, a hand going up to cup Porthos' cheek. "Alive," he reassured his brother before pulling himself up to sit. Porthos nodded before standing, holding out a hand which Aramis waved off. "Go and tie the remaining Spaniards up. I'm fine," Aramis said and the tone in his voice allowed no room for argument. Porthos seemed to hesitate before nodding and turning on his heels, going to help the other musketeers.

Aramis pulled himself up to stand, wincing in pain slightly. He slowly looked down at his side, the stinging pain making his eyes blur with tears. He blinked them back as he lifted his shirt, seeing the deep cut on his side where his opponent had managed to land a hit earlier in their fight. He gritted his teeth, forcing the pain down and telling himself there was nothing he could do just yet, knowing he needed to get back to camp to deal with the injury.

They had limited medical supplies with them and unfortunately, Aramis had forgotten the needle and thread to stitch himself up with. So Aramis decided he would grit his teeth in pain and that there was no point in saying something because all it would do was worry Porthos more.

Porthos dragged one of the Spaniards up to stand, forcing him to walk towards the horses. He ordered one of the musketeers to tie the now prisoners wrists together before Aramis and him walked through the camp.

There was only one tent set up, which was for the leader of the small group they had ambushed. Porthos glanced back at Aramis who nodded, lifting his pistol up before Porthos pulled back the tent flap. They both entered to find it empty, hearts deflating slightly even though they knew D'artagnan wouldn't be here. It was too close to their camp.

Aramis walked over to the papers slowly burning in the fire and quickly blew the flames down, picking out burnt papers that the Spanish had tried to get rid of. He narrowed his eyes slightly to read one of the letters, the black edges making it hard to read it.

"It's from their captain," he said once he glanced at the bottom of the page, noticing Antonio's signature.

"What's it say?" Porthos asked from where he was stood at the table, looking at their maps.

"I can't really make it out," Aramis said honestly, a part of him silently swearing to himself in anger. He had hoped the letters would have some sort of direction to where D'artagnan was.

Calling their search as a defeat they scooped up the letters that weren't completely ruined before heading out.

They got to the horses and Aramis tried to cover the wince that coursed through his body as he climbed onto his horse, the pain flaring up from the cut. He took in a deep breath, calming his heart while gripping the horse's reins tightly until the wave of nausea settled. Nothing he could do, don't want to worry Porthos, Aramis told himself, and it would be pointless to worry him.

They rode in silence back to the camp, keeping their pace slow for the four prisoners to be able to keep up with them from where they walked behind the group.

Once back at the camp, Porthos ordered a few musketeers to take the prisoners to where the others were being held. They nodded before quickly moving to take the Spaniard's away, pulling at the ropes that bound their hands together.

Aramis slowly lowered himself from the horse at an awkward angle to not inflict more pain on himself. He held onto the saddle to steady his balance when his feet touched the ground, a wave of dizziness washing over him.

He took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs and causing the pain in his side to increase. He winced again, gritting his teeth in anger when a small groan escaped from his lips.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked, passing his reins to one of the musketeers who took his horse to be fed.

"Perfect," Aramis replied with a nod before pushing up from the saddle and turning to face Porthos. The expression on his brother's face said it all; clearly the state of him had betrayed his words.

"You look like hell," he said, moving forward to Aramis as concern and fear for his brother took over.

"I may have lied slightly when I said the blood wasn't mine. Some of it is," Aramis said with a weak smile and Porthos glanced down at the bloody shirt before growling in frustration.

"You fool," Porthos said before lifting Aramis' shirt up to study the injury. "You need stitches," he stated and Aramis simply nodded.

"I know. I left my kit in Athos' tent, that's why I didn't say anything," Aramis said to defend his actions before he began to walk towards the Captain's tent to only have his legs betray him and buckle.

Porthos' strong hold was quickly there, holding him steady on his feet. Aramis let out a breath through gritted teeth, swallowing down the pain and allowing himself to lean into Porthos.

They made it over to Athos' tent, Porthos holding up most of Aramis' weight. He pushed the flap open and walked inside with Aramis' hunched form next to him.

Athos turned from talking to one of the older musketeers, Thomas, having been discussing battle strategies. His eyes landed on the two of them, Porthos holding Aramis up, and then on Aramis' blood stain shirt, fear gripping him for a second before his mind began racing.

"Leave us," he ordered Thomas, his voice slipping into Captain mode, and the man quickly left. "Lay him down," Athos then ordered and Porthos was already in the process of doing so. Aramis let out a small groan as he was gently lowered to his bed, the movement pulling on his injury.

"What happened?" Athos asked, moving over to them with bandages and alcohol to clean whatever wound Aramis had.

"The idiot got hit, thought it would be easier to wait until getting back to say anything about it," Porthos informed as he lifted Aramis' shirt back to reveal the deep cut that ran across his side.

"Like I said... I left my kit here," Aramis breathed, closing his eyes and trying to focus on anything but the stinging pain from his side. Athos unfolded the neatly packed cloth and poured the alcohol on it as Porthos moved to grab the stitching kit.

Aramis let out a hiss as Athos pressed the alcohol covered cloth onto the wound, flinching away from Athos' hand. Athos simply used his other hand to push Aramis back down to lay on the bed and press the cloth back onto the wound, beginning to clean it to stop infection.

"It will sting," Athos said dryly and Aramis let out a huffed laugh.

"You don't say," Aramis breathed, making sure his sarcasm was heard strongly within his voice.

Porthos returned, kneeling down opposite Athos and holding out the stitching kit. Athos dropped the blood stained cloth to the floor and took the kit from Porthos.

"Sadly, I'm not as talented as you are with this," Athos said with a small smirk appearing on his lips, trying to lighten the situation they were currently in.

"Please don't," Aramis then said, opening his eyes to look at his Captain. "It's going to look horrible, like a child has done it."

"So you'd rather get an infection or bleed out?" Athos asked in his usual dry tone to which Aramis had no words for. He simply let out a long sigh and then nodded, allowing Athos to stitch him up.

Out of all of them Aramis was the most experienced in medicine. However, being the one injured made it difficult for him to treat. So Athos took it upon himself to stitch him up. He wasn't as good as Aramis but he had watched the man work, patching both Athos and their brothers up when things got a little out of hand on previous missions.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Porthos asked, looking down at Aramis with concern laced in his voice. Porthos felt the guilt eating away at him from how he hadn't spotted his brother was in pain earlier.  
The man in question just grinned up at Porthos through tired eyes.

"It's living on the edge my friend, nothing makes you feel more alive than risking your life," he said and Athos glanced up at Aramis to lock eyes for a second.

"Next time, eat some undercooked chicken. That's risking your life just as much as this," Athos said dryly before continuing to stitch his brother up. Aramis let a grin stretch wide across his face as Porthos shook his head slightly, chuckling at Athos' words.

It took longer than he would have liked but Athos finally pulled the last stitch before surveying his work.

"I think that's actually a pretty good job," Porthos said, giving Athos an approving nod.

"Great great, Athos is a brilliant seamstress. Can you please just bandage me up now?" Aramis said, getting slightly impatient in his tired state. They set to work in bandaging his side up tightly before allowing Aramis to sit up.

"Here," Porthos said, passing a clean shirt to Aramis. He helped his brother slowly lift his blood covered shirt above his head before dressing him in a clean one.

Athos stood, disposing of the strained cloth and cleaning up his blood covered hands. He let out a long breath, his heart finally settling now that Aramis was bandaged up. He sympathised with the man, now knowing it must be hard being the doctor of the group given that Athos knew how they all were when injured.

D'artagnan always replied to whatever Aramis said with sarcasm laced thickly in his words. Athos refused to admit defeat more times than most, only finally allowing Aramis to fix him up when he was forced down to the bed by the angry doctor. Porthos had some issues with needles, always hating it when he had to have stitches and sometimes needing to be knocked out by a swift punch just so Aramis could work.

Athos turned back to see Porthos lowering Aramis back down to the bed, mumbling something to the injured musketeer to cause him to roll his eyes.

"I'm not dead yet Porthos," came Aramis' reply with a smirk on his lips.

"Just get some rest, we can't have you stumbling around the camp half conscious," Porthos ordered and Aramis grinned up at the man, the curve of his lips putting Porthos on edge.

"What?" He asked, his brows pulled into a small frown as Athos walked back over to join them.

"You're using Athos' captain voice," Aramis replied, earning a sharp glare from both his friends.

"Rest, and that's an order," Athos said, his voice stern.

"Of course, Captain," Aramis replied. Porthos gently squeezed his brothers' shoulder as the man closed his eyes to sleep. "Wait," Aramis suddenly said, his eyes snapping open and landing on Athos. Both his brothers were quick to react, leaning over Aramis slightly and thinking there was something wrong.

"What is it?" Athos asked as Aramis particularly gave the Captain a death glare.

"Your sling. Why are you not wearing it?" Aramis asked, his eyes glancing down to Athos still bandaged shoulder.

"It's not hurting as much," Athos said, even though that was a lie. He still felt a numbing pain and it would increase every time he moved his shoulder.

"Porthos, do me a favour and punch our dear Captain in the shoulder," Aramis said and Porthos chuckled, shaking his head at his two brothers.

"Rest Aramis, I'm fine," Athos told him.

"Yeah, clearly," Aramis said sarcastically but decided not to push Athos due to the look he was currently getting from him.

Aramis settled back down in his bed, letting his eyes fall closed as his brothers straightened up. Athos then nodded to the tent entrance and the two men exited to grab some food and leave Aramis to rest in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the comments, they always make my day and get me writing this story quicker. Hope you guys liked this chapter, the next we will be back with D'artganan, so prepare for the pain (sorry, not sorry). Leave a review and tell me what you thought, next chapter will be up soon :)


	6. The Beginning

D'artagnan woke with a start, snapping his head back up from where it had fallen against his chest as he had slept. He blinked back sleep as he tried to focus his foggy mind. His whole body was aching and beginning to slowly lose feeling, his upper body still stretched as he hung from the tree. His throat was sore from the limited amount of water he had drunk, the last drop being back at the French camp before they had headed out on the mission and got ambushed two days ago now.

They had been given a few scraps of food from the remains of the Spaniard's meals, however water was another thing.

He licked his dry lips, the roughness of his throat making itself present once he tried to swallow. He let out a breath before letting his head drop back to his chest, not having the effort to hold it up. He wasn't sure he going to last any longer hanging from the tree, with no water and the small amount of food they were getting he needed to think of something fast.

He glanced over to the musketeers, most of them still curled up on the ground asleep. His eyes came to rest on Philippes, seeing that the man was sat up straight and watching the few Spaniards that had arisen early in the morning, his eyes wide and shoulders stiff. Feeling D'artagnan's gaze on him he glanced over, locking eyes for a few seconds before the sound of footsteps broke them.

D'artagnan didn't have enough time to even think before the rope was cut and he was falling towards to the mud, landing harshly on the ground face first.

He let out a cry of pain as his whole body protested against the sudden movement. He squeezed his eyes shut as the blood rushed back to his hands after so long of being tied above his head. His body throbbed, painful relief flowing through him. He laid there for a few seconds completely still, breathing in the dirt while allowing time for his upper body to regain feeling.

He then coughed as the dirt tickled his nose, his throat dry and mind foggy, dehydration starting to kick in.

Suddenly, a water skin was thrown down next to him, landing inches away from his face before the Spaniard moved on, handing out water to the rest of the now awake musketeers.

D'artagnan rolled onto his side slowly, pushing with all the strength he had left to sit himself up, his arms shaking violently under the strain. He took in a breath once sat up, a wave of dizziness hitting him and causing his world to spin.

Once the trees had settled to the upright position he could then work on picking up the water skin. It took him a while to get his arms to do what his brain was commanding them to do, but finally, after a few intense moments, he managed to pick the water skin up.  
He fumbled with it slightly due to his tied hands but he soon had it open and was gulping greedily at the fresh water.

He let his hands drop back down once he had drain it of water, taking a deep breath to fill up his lungs before looking back at the others.

"Are you alright?" D'artagnan asked Philippes, eyes dropping down to the healing wound on the young musketeer's neck.

"I'm fine, you?" Philippes asked back and D'artagnan simply nodded.

"Now that I'm back on solid ground," he added before rolling his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness that ached his sore muscles.

"I think we're moving," Philippes then mumbled to him, glancing towards the Spaniard's slowly tracing around the camp, a few of them starting to pack away.

"It seems so," D'artagnan said back, coughing slightly, a small groan escaping his lips afterwards.

"Do you think they'll find us?" Duval suddenly piped up, shuffling forward to get closer to the two of them. The rest of them suddenly glanced over, curious to what D'artagnan would say. The older musketeer looked up at them all, realising then that they had made him their leader. He swallowed, feeling the sense of responsibility suddenly drown over him.

"Emm..." He began, and he tried to think of what Athos would say in the current situation. He looked at their frightened faces and wide eyes, all hoping D'artagnan wouldn't say the thing they were all dreading. "Yes," he said, finally finding his voice. "I believe the Captain and the rest of our comrades are trying their best to find us. However we must stay strong until they get to us, which I promise you they will," D'artagnan said and he saw his words had put a slight ease to their worries.

They all slowly slumped back, having leant forward to listen to D'artagnan, and fell silent into their own worried thoughts. Philippes watched their now leader with careful eyes, trying to pick up on D'artagnan's uneasiness.

When D'artagnan looked at Philippes he couldn't help but see himself in the young boy, seeing so much potential and determination. It made him think of how Athos must have seen him, D'artagnan having become Athos' protégé in some words.

Before Philippes could speak up his concern, the flap to the Captain's tent sounded and Antonio strode out. He gave a glance towards the prisoners, eyes coming to rest on D'artagnan who just glared back.

He watched Antonio sit down by the dying fire and eat breakfast with his men, casual conversation picking up as if there weren't starving musketeers sat a few metres away from them. D'artagnan ignored the low grumble that occurred from his stomach, looking away from the eating Spaniards and towards the trees where the birds were singing away.

His mind fell back into memories of his three brothers and him all out in the forest, looking after the Queen. A soft smile formed on his lips as he remembered Aramis drowning in the blissfulness that was the bird's peaceful singing. However, that had lasted only a short while before he finally snapped and tried to shoot birds and stop their now annoyingchirping.

If the situation had been different, D'artagnan would have thought the morning as a peaceful one, the sun shining through the gaps in the trees as it rose slowly in the sky. He wondered what his brothers were doing and whether they had found a lead in their search of him and the others.

God knew what they were thinking or how they were coping. D'artagnan wanted to tell them that he was fine, to put his brothers' minds at ease. However, it was something he just couldn't do and it pained him every second knowing they were worried for him.

After Antonio had finished his breakfast he stood, moving over to where D'artagnan's and the rest of the musketeers' belongings were laid in a pile on the ground. He plucked up D'artagnan's hat, twirling it around before glancing up at the sun. He then walked over and roughly placed the hat on to D'artagnan's head.

"Wouldn't want my favourite musketeer to go unprotected from the sun now, would I," Antonio said with a smirk before walking towards his tent, D'artagnan glaring after the man from under his hat.

The sun was set high above them when it was finally time to move, D'artagnan and the others being tied to the horses and forced to walk behind.

He walked next to Philippes who was allowing D'artagnan to slump against him slightly. He was still shaky on his feet, the beating he had gotten last night still throbbing and making itself known.

He glanced towards the soldiers on the horses, making sure none of them were looking before he pulled the feather from his hat. He then dropped it to the ground discretely, making sure the sharp tip was stuck in the mud before glancing up at Philippes and falling back into step with him.

"You're leaving a trail?" He asked and D'artagnan nodded, glancing towards the soldiers riding ahead.

"It might not work but it's worth a shot," D'artagnan said, keeping his voice low and Philippes nodded in understanding.

There were many horse tracks along the path and picking the right one to go down was a slim chance. So D'artagnan had come up with the idea of leaving clues, anything he could think of that his brothers would recognise as him.

As he walked, his mind slipped to Constance, wondering if she knew about what had happened to him. He missed her, missed waking up to her every morning, missed her smile and the way her eyes shined, her snappy responses and her caring nature. There wasn't a moment when he didn't think of her; even if she was in the back of his mind, she was still there.

He wanted to tell her that he was ok, that he wasn't hurt and would be back in her arms soon. His heart ached as he thought of the worry she must be in, giving anything to be back with her.

* * *

 

After eating breakfast with some of the musketeers, Athos decided to go and interrogate the Spaniard's Aramis and Porthos had managed to bring back. Porthos followed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he walked after Athos.

"Which one of you is the leader?" Athos asked as he and Porthos came to a stop in front of the four prisoners. The other two they had taken in sat apart from the group, keeping their heads low and ignoring the two musketeers.

He waited patiently until finally a blonde haired man glanced towards the Spaniard closest to Athos. He looked across at the Spaniard in question, seeing how the man then pulled his shoulders back and held his head high now that he had been given away.

Already, Athos knew it wasn't going to be an easy interrogation, just from the look of the man.

"I believe your Captain has taken a few of our men," Athos began, staring down at the man and putting up an intimidating front. "I also believe that you know where they're heading," Athos said and the Spaniard simply lifted his head even higher, showing Athos he was better than them.

"Like hell I'm going to tell you where they're heading or where they're camping," the Spaniard replied, his accent thick and eyes boiling with anger.

Athos crouched low in front of the man, his eyes stony and face set hard. The Spaniard glared across at the Captain, gritting his teeth in anger.

"You'll never find your friends," the Spaniard began. "Their probably dead by now, the Captain has no use for some musketeer scum," he said and Athos felt Porthos tense behind him. He, however, kept his expression neutral and simply straightened his back, putting himself at a higher level over the Spaniard. He looked down at the man who seemed to not want to back down with the insults. "Your friends are probably filth on the floo-"

"You may want to stop with the insults. My friend here only has a limited amount of patience with people like you… people who think themselves above others," Athos said, gesturing a hand towards Porthos who started cracking his knuckles as a tactic to intimidate the prisoner.

"I am above you, you pathetic fool," the Spaniard said before he spat in Athos' face. The Captain didn't even flinch, simply sighing and standing up before pulling out a cloth from his pocket. He glanced at the other Spaniards, catching the blonde one sat a few metres away looking shaken and mouth open slightly as if to speak.

Athos turned and nodded to Porthos before wiping his face with the cloth. The larger musketeer suddenly stepped forward and grabbed the front of the Spaniard's jacket, roughly pulling him up close to Porthos' face. He raised a fist in ready to punch the Spaniard before someone suddenly spoke up.

"South! It's south," a prisoner said, his voice frantic.

It was the blonde one.

Athos smiled to himself, happy his plan on scaring the younger Spaniard to speak had worked.

"Their camp is south," the Spaniard then said, his voice slightly more steady this time. The two musketeers glanced at each other before looking at the man.

"How far?" Athos asked, moving over to crouch down low in front of the Spaniard. The prisoner swallowed, glancing at his brothers who all stared at him with wide eyes. He looked back at Athos, taking in a shaky breath before speaking.

"About seven miles from here, near the Dordogne River," he said and Athos studied him, trying to stop his heart from fluttering with the small hope of finding D'artagnan. "They've probably moved on by now though," he then said and Porthos walked over, standing behind where Athos was crouching and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Where are they heading?" Porthos asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm being honest," he then added when he saw the look on both the musketeers' faces.

Athos then nodded before standing, turning to look at Porthos. The larger man studied the Spaniard for a couple more seconds before turning and walking away, Athos falling into step with him.

"You believe him?" Porthos asked and Athos shrugged, a hand coming up to run through his long and unkept hair.

"There's only one way to find out," Athos then said and Porthos looked over at him. "Don't set your hopes on it though Porthos, we still have a long way to go," he said, causing Porthos to glance away and down at the ground as they walked.

"I know, I just want to get him back," he said and Athos threw an arm around Porthos' shoulder, pulling him close.

"And we will," he said, giving Porthos a reassuring squeeze before dropping his arm. He knew how Porthos was feeling, they were all feeling the same way. With D'artagnan gone, things just didn't seem to be right; nothing was when either of them was away from their group. It was the four of them and that's how it always was. With D'artagnan being missing, it seemed to hang over their heads like a dark cloud, breaking their somewhat dysfunctional family.

"Captain," a musketeer called from behind and Athos stopped to turn around. "This came for you a few moments ago," he said, handing Athos the letter.

"Thank you," he said before the musketeer walked off.

For a moment, Athos thought it was Constance's reply as he ripped the seal open, not wanting to look down at the writing scribbled across the paper. However, the second his eyes landed on the first word his lips curled up into a soft smile, recognising Sylvie's hand in a heartbeat.

He suddenly folded the letter up, knowing Porthos had glanced over his shoulder to see who had written to him. Athos turned to face Porthos, seeing the small grin on the man's lips.

"Shut up," he then said and Porthos held his hands up in surrender.

"I wasn't going to say anything," he said, defending himself before clapping Athos on the shoulder and heading back to the Captain's tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight wait and that D'artagnan's part was a little short. I'm just building up to the drama, so be patience with me :) Thank you for the kudos and the comments, they always make my day. Hope this chapter was good, tell me what you thought below. Until next time..


	7. The Riot

Constance threw herself into her work the next morning, busying her mind with running the GArrison. However, there were moments when her mind would drift to him. He had been in her dreams last night, memories of when they were last together flickering through. The dreams soon turned to nightmares, nightmares that woke her up with a start and sweat covering her body.

"How are you feeling?" Sylvie's voice came from behind her and she turned, seeing the other woman stood leaning against the door frame. Constance sighed, placing down the papers she had been carrying onto the table next to her.

"I'm good," she said and the look on Sylvie's face said it all. "I didn't slept well last night," she the added honestly, knowing there was no point in lying to her friend.

"That's understandable," Sylvie said, walking down the few steps into the room. They were in one of the larger rooms that Sylvie used to get Paris more educated. She was still pushing for a better future, trying to give more people access to learning how to read and write. They were slowly making progress, however, the war was making it harder. It was mostly because of the limited supplies and many people just working and heading home, wanting to stay safe and be with their family whenever they could.

"You shouldn't push yourself too hard, Constance," Sylvie said, moving over to her.

"Neither should you," she replied. "I heard you pacing last night, how much sleep did you get?"

Honestly, Sylvie had gotten about an hour, maybe two at a push, of sleep last night, the thought of the men at war keeping her up. She couldn't stand the fact that they were all out there, risking their lives and now that D'artagnan was in the hands of the enemy... It just made things even more difficult and painful for them all.

"Have you eaten?" Sylvie asked, drawing the conversation back at Constance, who turned to pick up the papers.

"Not yet," she said and with that Sylvie locked arms with her to pull her gently out of the room.

Elodie sat at the table where the four musketeers usually ate their meals, her daughter in her arms as she smiled down at her. She looked up at the two women as they approached, giving them a soft smile and a good morning.

However, before either of them could reply, one of the cadets came running in, sweat dripping from his forehead and trying desperately to catch his breath to speak.

"It's the...the Red Guards," he managed to breath out before pulling himself up to stand straighter after doubling over slightly. "There's a riot... The poor are stealing from the Guards' new supply that's just been delivered... They're not handling it well," the cadet said and Constance glanced towards Sylvie who was already eager to go help sort the situation out.

"Show us where," Constance said, taking charge of the current situation. The cadet nodded and waved for his fellow musketeers to follow after him. "Sylvie," Constance called and the woman was already walking over, a sword being handed to her by one of the cadets, another being given to Constance.

The young cadet led the way through the streets to the riot, the shouts being heard before they had even rounded the corner.

The Red Guards stood in a circle around two large carts that were carrying bags of food for their regiment, the horses bucking slightly in fear from the growing crowd. The people of Paris surrounded them, pushing against the guards and trying to steal the food.

"Greedy scum!" One man shouted as he threw himself at one of the guards. "We're going to starve!" He growled, balling his hands into fists and swinging a punch that landed across one of the Red Guard's cheek, causing the Guard to stumble back slightly.

"Hey!" Marcheaux shouted, grabbing the man and pushing him backwards so he fell to the ground roughly.

He withdrew his pistol from his belt and the man suddenly cried out in fear. He then raised the pistol upwards and fired one warning shot into the air, silencing the crowd in a second.

"Back away now or I will have you all arrest and thrown in the Châtelet," Marcheaux ordered as Constance pushed her way through the crowd. The man on the ground was helped up by a few of his friends, all glaring at the Captain of the Red Guards.

"You don't know what it's like!" A woman shouted from the back of the crowd.

"We need food!" Another shouted and the crowd started to rise again, shouts of insults flying from their mouths as they tried to push against the Guards once more.

"Madame D'artagnan, you have no business here," Marcheaux snapped as Constance finally made it to the front of the riot.

"The musketeers are here to keep peace over Paris, this is clearly not peace," she said in a matter of fact tone, which only caused Marcheaux's anger to rise.

"We don't need help from you and your lap dogs," Marcheaux said, glancing at the cadets and looking a few of them up and down.

"Of course, because it looks like you have everything handled," Sylvie spoke up with sarcasm laced thickly in her voice, gesturing around her as one men threw a punch at one of the Guards.

"This is Red Guard business. You and your... _Children_ should go back to the garrison, let the adults handle this," Marcheaux said, taking a hit at how young the cadets were. They all tensed, ready for a fight between regiments with the added help of the people of Paris, who were always on the Musketeers' side. It was known throughout both regiments that the Musketeers were the more favoured one within the streets, the Red Guards failing miserably in a gentle touch when it came to situations like these.

"Shut your mouth Marcheaux before I make you. My men are certainly more capable then your poor excuse," Constance said and the Captain growled.

"Are you threatening the Red Guards?" He asked, balling his hands up in anger.

"No, I'm threatening the Captain who can't keep his men in check," she said. Marcheaux went for his sword but Sylvie raised hers quicker, pressing the blade along the side of Marcheaux's neck.

"I dare you," Sylvie said as Marcheaux's eyes traced along the blade to its holder. Constance turned to look at the cadets, them all silently taking her orders in. They moved through the group, pushing the people back while remaining a gentle front.

"People I assure you that you will not go hungry," Constance began, the crowd silencing slightly to hear her speak. "Both Musketeer and Red Guard regiments will be glad to help, but stealing is not the way," Constance said and the crowd slowly began to take in her words.

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" A blonde haired man asked, his voice full of hostility.

"Because Musketeers are loyal and honest," Constance said with a glance toward her friend, who gave her a reassuring look. Sylvie then stepped forward, removing her blade from Marcheaux's neck.

"Constance is right, stealing is not the way about this. You have our word that we will bring you food and will not let your families go unfed," Sylvie said and the crowd slowly died down, their anger easing at the woman's words.

"Still doesn't mean the Red Guards will help!" A woman shouted from over to the right, a hand coming up in a fist and shaking it in anger. "Lying scum they are," she cried and the crowd nodded, grumblings beginning to rise once more.

"Captain Marcheaux, can you give your word to the people that you will help?" Constance asked, daring the man to go up against her. He glared at her, however his anger slowly drained once he realised he was outnumbered.

"Of course," he said and Constance simply nodded, turning back to the crowd who seemed to be weighing up their options.

"Food stations shall be set up throughout Paris where you can come for rations. In these times of great need, it is better to work together then go at each other's throats," Constance said and the crowd finally settled. They slowly began to disperse until only the Red Guards and Musketeers where left surrounding the two carts.

"My men will help," Marcheaux said with anger still brushing at the surface. "But we need food as well."

"Two carts of it I see," Constance said before turning on her heals and walking off, Sylvie falling into step with her while the cadets quickly followed.

Marcheaux growled in anger, throwing the pistol he still held to the ground.

"Mark my words," Marcheaux grumbled to his men once Constance and the others were out of earshot. "I will make that woman pay."

* * *

Athos sat at the table, fingers tracing the edge of the slightly ripped paper, eyes reading the familiar hand of Sylvie.

Porthos was laying next to Aramis on the bed, both on their backs staring up at the tent ceiling. Aramis had woken up the second Athos and Porthos had walked back into the tent after interrogating the Spaniard's. Porthos was currently informing him of what they had found out and a small light of hope shone in Aramis' eyes.

Athos ignored the soft tones of their conversation as he read the letter.

_It's an odd feeling not having you all around at the Garrison, I just wished you were back here and safe with me. I know you have a duty to the crown and I don't blame you for it, I guess I just miss you._

A small smile appeared on his lips as he thought of her, missing her dearly but knowing his duty to France had to come first. He hated leaving her back in Paris but knew she was going to be safe in the garrison and that she had Constance and Elodie there with her.

_Constance is finding the news about D'artagnan hard, forcing herself into her work and making sure the Garrison is running smoothly. Elodie misses Porthos, tell him that their baby girl laughed for the first time last night and that she misses her father very much. The Queen and the Dauphin are safe; Constance is going to see her tomorrow about seeing if we could get more supplies for the people. It's hard back here, a few small riots have broken out throughout the past couple of weeks but nothing the cadets can't handle though._

_My thoughts are always with you, Athos, and I wish for your safe journey home._

_Yours always,_

_Sylvie_

"Marie laughed for the first time last night," Athos said, straightening up and turning to look at them both. "They're both perfectly fine and healthy," Athos reassured him and Porthos let a smile form on his lips as he sat up.

Aramis nudged the man in the side with his elbow, slowly pulling himself up as well to smirk at his brother. Athos then stood, slipping the letter into his breast pocket before going to grab Aramis some dinner, knowing the man hadn't eaten yet.

"I've decided to put Thomas in charge while we head out to chase up the lead we have on D'artagnan and the others," Athos told them as he walked over with a plate of food. "I have to speak with the General and clear things up but we should be heading out soon," he informed them both.

"How far out did the Spaniard say the camp was?" Aramis asked as Athos handed the plate to him before sitting down at the bottom of the bed.

"Seven miles," he said and Aramis nodded.

"Not that far. After I've finished this and you've spoken to the General we can get going, get to the Spanish camp before nightfall," Aramis said and Athos and Porthos shared a worried look.

"You're still badly injured Aramis," Porthos said, a hand coming to rest on the man's back as he ate.

"So is Athos," he replied and Athos let out a soft sigh, glancing across at Porthos. Aramis swallowed down a bite of the bread before straightening slightly, jaw set in determination. "If you think you're going to stop me from bringing our brothers back you're mistaken," Aramis added before turning to look at Athos, who seemed to be studying him. "Athos," Aramis warned and the look on Aramis' face caused Athos to back down.

"We weren't going to stop you, merely a suggestion for you to stay behind," Athos simply said and Aramis smirked, knowing that was Athos' way of saying he could come.

Aramis was quick at eating his food, making sure to eat it all since he knew Porthos was watching him. Athos returned from his meeting with the General and said everything was cleared up for them to leave on the rescue mission.

They walked out of the Captain's tent, all kitted up with their weapons and ready for the mission. Athos went over to talk to Thomas, who was waiting patiently by their horses. The musketeer was the most experienced after them three and the Captain knew he would do a good job at keeping order within the camp.

"If you are attacked then move on and send word back to Treville, don't wait for us to return. I fear we will be longer than expected in finding them anyway," he said and Thomas nodded, listening to Athos' every word.

"I won't let you down Captain," Thomas replied, pulling his shoulders back and holding his head high. Athos gave Thomas a small smile, clapping the man on the shoulder before turning and heading to his horse.

The second Athos had turned Thomas sagged, feeling the burden of being in charge fall heavily on his shoulders. Aramis and Porthos, both sat on their horses, glanced at each other having seen Thomas' expression.

"The man looks scared to death, what did you say to him?" Aramis teased as Athos joined them, just giving Aramis a look before pulling himself up onto his horse.

"Ready?" He simply asked and the two shared a grin before kicking their horses into action, all determined in bringing D'artagnan back safely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly longer wait for this chapter, hope it was worth the wait. Thank you for the kudos and comments, next chapter up soon, don't forget to review thanks :)


	8. The Pain

D'artagnan didn't know how long they had been walking before suddenly the leading rider, who had scouted ahead, came trotting back down the path. He pulled his horse to a stop, his hand coming up to warn the others. They all followed, slowing their horses and becoming weary of what the lead rider had seen around the bend in the path up ahead.

  
He swung his leg over his horse and dropped with a light thud to the ground, pulling out his pistol once settled. 

  
The rest of the soldiers followed and D'artagnan watched carefully, straining his ears to hear for anything. He told himself it wasn't his brothers; no way could they have gotten to them so fast. A small part of him did wish though. He wished that Porthos, Aramis and Athos would come riding down the path, swords draw and faces full of fury. 

  
However, his heart sunk as the lead rider spoke. 

  
"It's a small French camp, about eight men," he mumbled to Captain Antonio who stood a few metres forward from D'artagnan. 

  
"Take them," he simply said and D'artagnan balled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. 

  
"No!" He shouted, pulling at the rope around his wrists. "Do you have no mercy?" He questioned as Antonio's men took to the trees to sneak up on the French camp up ahead. 

  
"You would have no mercy if you'd seen the things you French scum have done to us," Antonio said, turning to look at D'artagnan in disgust. 

  
"And you haven't done the same?" D'artagnan questioned as the Spanish soldiers disappeared from view. Antonio simply shrugged, causing D'artagnan to growl in anger. 

  
Shots rang through the air and swords hit flesh, cries of pain and the heavy sound of bodies hitting the ground caused the musketeers to flinch. In a matter of minutes, deafening silence fell and the smell of blood and gunpowder hung thick in the air as they made their way around the corner. 

  
Antonio stopped to survey the scene ahead of him, the musketeers all stood behind, trying to hold back the anger as well as the sorrow. D'artagnan swallowed back the tears, his anger towards the Captain taking over from his sadness. 

Philippes let out a quiet sob with his head hung low against his chest as he prayed for his brothers, gripping the cross around his neck with his tied hands. The sight of his friend caused D'artagnan's to suddenly think of Aramis, remembering the many times Aramis had clutched his own cross. 

D'artagnan glanced around at the other musketeers, seeing them all forcing back tears while also restraining their growing anger towards Antonio. 

  
"You'll pay for this," D'artagnan growled at the Captain, his voice low and menacing. Unable to restrain his anger he went to lung for the Captain, ignoring his aching body. 

  
Antonio, seeing D'artagnan's attack coming, stepped back quickly and shouted for one of his men. Two Spaniards were on him in seconds, gripping his arms and restricting D'artagnan's movement.

  
"I won't let you get away with this. You cold bloodied murderer," D'artagnan snapped, pulling at the men holding him back. Antonio watched D'artagnan's struggle, a harsh glare sent in the musketeer’s direction. 

  
"I'm getting tired of your talking," he then said before walking forward, pulling his scarf from around his neck and gagging D'artagnan with it. 

  
D’artagnan let out a low growl, directing a glare at Antonio before the Captain turned. He pulled himself back up onto his horse, his men following. He then gave a rough tug of the prisoners rope and they all moved forward, D'artagnan stumbling slightly as he winced in pain. His injuries were still healing and the continuous work on his body wasn't helping. 

  
"We'll revenge them, don't worry," Duval said from behind him, tugging at the rope around his wrists. "I'll make sure of it," he then grumbled and D'artagnan could only hum.

   
It was awful watching their brothers get killed but then having to walk through their small camp, eight bodies lying on the ground covered in their own blood... It would torment them all until their dying day. 

  
Philippes turned his head away, keeping it low and staring down at the ground, being unable to look at the French soldiers. 

On the other hand, D'artagnan looked at each one of them, remembering their faces and knowing they all had family back in Paris, family that were awaiting their safe return.

  
He took in a shaky breath as they exited the camp, continuing on their journey. He didn't need to leave a clue for his brothers, the Spanish having done that for him already.  
He looked at the back of Antonio's head, the anger rising up within him once again as he plotted ways he was going to the Captain… Slowly and painfully.  


* * *

 

Constance stood by the door to the Queen's quarters, shifting from one foot to the other as she waited for the doors to open. She was wearing her best dress and her hair pulled back neatly from her face.

  
The doors to the quarters open up and the Queen stepped through, looking as elegant as ever with her dress sweeping after her. 

  
"Constance," she said softly, holding out a hand as she walked towards her friend. Constance took it and Anne gave her hand a gently squeeze. "How about a walk in the gardens?" The Queen suggested and Constance nodded, smiling at her before falling into step with Anne. 

  
They made it to the gardens in comfortable silence, a few guards walking behind them at a distance. 

  
"I hear you wanted to speak to me," Anne then began, slowing her pace and glancing over at Constance. 

  
"Yes Your Majesty, it's about the supplies," Constance said. 

  
"Speak freely Constance," Anne replied and Constance smiled gently.

  
"The people of Paris are getting anxious. Riots are breaking out against the Red Guards, the public saying they aren't getting enough food… People are dying, Your Majesty. Illness is spreading quickly through the streets and with limited medical supplies, well…" Constance wondered off, knowing the Queen knew what she was trying to say.

  
"When's the next shipment of supplies into the garrison?" Anne asked and Constance paused, counting the days since the last one.

  
"In two days," she then replied and the Queen nodded. 

  
"I'm sure the palace can reduce the amount of food it takes and I'm almost certain we can spare the medial supplies we have to give to the people of Paris," Anne said and Constance smiled at her, thankful she understood the struggle the public were in. "How many riots have there been?" Anne asked, wanting to know everything that was happening in Paris. 

  
"Only a few. We're working with the Red Guards to try and control the situation. We've set up food stations for the poor, giving out rations so that they can at least feed their families," Constance informed her and the Queen nodded before gesturing to the stone bench stood near a patch of beautiful flowers. 

  
"The two regiments are getting along?" She asked as they both took a seat on the bench. She knew there was history between the two, tavern brawls the minimum of what had occurred between regiments. 

  
"With persuasion and threats, yes they are," Constance said and Anne looked over at her. 

  
"Not your doing I take it," she teased and Constance glanced towards the ground, a small smile forming on her lips. 

  
"With the help of Sylvie," she informed her and the Queen nodded. 

  
"The woman of the people?" She asked, remembering hearing Sylvie's name before. 

  
"You could say so, the people trust her to get justice for them," she said before looking up at the Queen. She saw a hint of pain in the Queen's eyes and couldn't understand why. Suddenly, Anne took Constance's hand in hers and brushed her thumb across the woman's knuckles.

  
"Treville informed me of the missing Musketeers," she began and Constance straightened slightly, unsure if she could have this conversation yet.

The emotions of losing D'artagnan were still too raw to be able to talk about it.

"He says that your husband, D'artagnan, is one of the seven taken by the Spanish," Anne said and Constance nodded, looking down at the ground unable to look Anne in the eyes. "I can't image how hard it must be for you Constance, but I want you to know that I'm always here for you," Anne said and gave her hand a squeeze, causing Constance to look up at her with tear filled eyes. 

  
"Thank you Your Majesty," Constance said and the Queen smiled at her. She then leant over, slipping her hand out of Constance's grip to give the woman a hug.

  
Constance then let the tears flow, knowing she couldn't hold them back any longer. Anne rubbed circles on her back to try and sooth her, Constance burying her head into her neck. 

  
"It's going to be alright," the Queen then said and Constance sniffed, pulling herself back together before moving away slightly. Anne smiled softly at her, seeing how much the woman was hurting caused her heart to ache. She brushed a strand of hair from Constance's face before taking her hand, pulling the woman up to stand. 

  
"Come on, I'm sure my son would love to see you," Anne said and Constance smiled, allowing herself to be guided back to the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you thought of this slightly shorter chapter :) Don't know whether to continue or not, i know it would be mean to just suddenly stop... I'm slowly figuring this story out though, which is a good thing I guess aha.


	9. The Beating

They rode the seven miles in silence, all trying not to think of the worst that they could find at the camp. However, all three of them were failing miserably and imagining the bloody sight of their brothers all dead. Logic would suggest that all seven of the musketeers were still alive yet the mind played tricks on them, driving them deeper into a pit of growing worry.

They managed to find the camp just as the sun was setting through the trees, the light quickly dropping.

Athos climbed down from his horse, pulling at the reins to walk slowly towards the remains of a burnt out fire.

"They're not that good with covering their tacks," Aramis stated after Porthos helped him down from his horse, ignoring the pain from his healing injury. He glanced over to where Athos crouched down, holding a hand over the burnt firewood before the Captain sighed in defeat, his heart sinking slightly. The fire was cold, which meant they had moved on a while ago.

"Or maybe they're not trying to," Porthos then spoke up as he bent down to pick up some rope that laid abandoned by the tree he was about to tie the horses up to. "Looks like they had one of them hung up by the branch," Porthos said, glancing up to said branch and seeing the worn out bark. He suddenly realised who to could have and probably had been, fear rising up within him as well as anger towards the men who were doing this to their brother. They all fell silent, looking at the frayed rope in Porthos' hand.

"He's going to be fine," Athos then bluntly said, turning away from his brothers' gazes. The two knew Athos too well to not recognise the worried tone of his voice which he had tried and failed to cover up.

"You sure?" Porthos then asked, crouching down by the tree and pulling his knife out. He picked at the dirt on the ground with the point of his knife before lifting it up to show them both.

Blood.

It was dry and mixed in with the dirt but it wasn't hard to recognise the deep red colour that stood out on the larger musketeer's blade.

"You don't think..." Aramis then wondered off, not wanting to say what they were all thinking.

"No," Athos said sharply, twisting around to look at them both. "He's not dead," he said with such force that they believed him in a heartbeat. "He's too valuable to them, they need him alive," he added, his voice slightly softer this time as he reined in his anger and worry.

Aramis simply nodded, watching Athos, who turned away from them both once again. He then glanced over at Porthos to see the man also staring at Athos, concern written all over his face. Feeling Aramis' eyes on him he turned his head to look at his brother. He gave Aramis a soft smile that just felt wrong on his lips.

Aramis let his shoulders slump slightly, hating seeing his friends worried. He couldn't stop thinking about D'artagnan and the other musketeers that were missing and knew his two brothers couldn't either.

It seemed wrong, like everything was off place without D'artagnan completing their foursome. His mind flickered back to the times before D'artagnan had strode so strongly into their lives and couldn't believe that it ever felt right just the three of them. It just didn't work anymore, D'artagnan was part of the family now and by God they were going to find him and put things back in place.

After starting a small fire, Athos went off walking through the nearby trees that surrounded the clearing, trying to find more firewood they could use through the night. Porthos had started to cook some of the food they had brought with them while Aramis had been forced to sit by the tree and do nothing.

He felt helpless, itching to do something but knowing Athos would scold him for working while  
injured.

"Stop fidgeting, it's putting me on edge," Porthos suddenly said from where he was crouched by the fire.

"Then let me help," Aramis replied and earned a look from the larger musketeer.

"You're injured," he stated and Aramis rolled his eyes, straightening up where he sat against the tree.

"Injured but not incapable," he responded with a humorous tone, a small grin appearing on his face when he saw Porthos' expression.

"Just relax, you should be happy we're doing everything for you," Porthos said with a grin, turning back to his cooking.

"Not in the slightest, I know you're cooking skills are limited," Aramis replied but stayed sat against the tree, crossing his arms gently to not cause more damage to his injured side.

"At least they're better than your skills," Athos teased as he walked back into their little camp, arms full of firewood.

"You shouldn't be straining your shoulder," Aramis said and Athos gave him a look which was one of pure annoyance at the medic for bringing his injury back up and being concerned over nothing. However, there was a slight humour behind it, his eyes smiling but his lips staying flat.

For a moment it seemed like everything was back to normal, that they were on a simple musketeer mission and joking around, and that any second now D'artagnan would come walking into the camp with a smile on his face, easily joking with the rest of them.

Aramis knew the others had felt the same way, the looks on their faces conveyed it all. The two slowly sunk back in on themselves and continued on with their tasks of setting up camp for the night.

With a heavy heart Aramis sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head against the tree, allowing the smell of Porthos cooking to drown over him.

He had to admit, it did smell pretty good. However, he'd never actually tell Porthos that the man was the better chef than him. Never.

* * *

 

As night fell, the prisoners were getting tired, feet dragging slightly as they walked along the path. D'artagnan had kept his eyes boring into the back of Antonio's head for most of the journey until slumping forward; passing the time by imagining the different ways he could kill the man. It somehow soothed him.

"Here," Antonio finally said, pointing towards a small clearing. "We'll camp here for the night," he added before climbing down from his horse. D'artagnan's shoulders were slumped forward, his head hanging low as his stomach growled for a decent meal.

He was pulled with the rest of his comrades to sit at the edge of the camp, falling onto his knees when he was roughly pushed to the ground. He let out a small grunt and glared up at the Spaniard who simply ignored him. He bit down on the scarf that was still acting as a gag, grinding his teeth on the material.

"Leave the tent for tonight," the Captain told his men. "We'll set it up once we get to the main camp," he said as he sat down against a tree, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Philippes was pushed to sit down behind D'artagnan and without thinking D'artagnan leant back to rest against his friends back. Philippes smiled softly before leaning back against D'artagnan too, supporting each other as they sat in silence.

Duval and the rest of the musketeers sat down next to them, knees drawn up to make themselves as small as possible in hopes to be ignored.

D'artagnan however knew that wasn't going to happen; after being thrown the scraps of the Spaniard's evening meal and D'artagnan's gag being removed so he could eat, Antonio stood to stretch.

D'artagnan took in a breath before letting it out in a long sigh, thankful his ribs didn't protest against the simply act which meant he was slowly but surely healing.

The Captain nodded to one of his men and suddenly D'artagnan was being dragged towards the centre of the clearing, pushed to the ground next to the fire. He let out a grunt before pushing himself up with his bounded hands, coming to kneel.

"Question time, my friend," Antonio said as he came to stand in front of D'artagnan. The musketeer simply tilted his head back, lifting his chin as if to challenge the Captain. "The route which you transport your supplies to the frontline; tell me it," Antonio rather ordered them asked.

"Like I said before, they've probably changed it by now," D'artagnan simply said, seeing the frustration building up within Antonio.

"Tell me the route," he ordered, his voice low and threatening.

"You must think my Captain as stupid. It's obvious they would change it and well...It's pointless knowing an old route," D'artagnan said with a small grin on his lips, pretending to be the little shit that he actually was.

"Tell me or I won't hesitate in using force," the Captain said and D'artagnan actually laughed.

"You can threaten and torture me all you like but you won't get anything of value from me," D'artagnan said, holding his head high.

"Then he dies," Antonio said, pulling his pistol out from behind his back and aiming it at Philippes. The musketeer straightened up from where he sat, heart hammering against his chest as he stared into the eyes of the Captain.

"Don't," D'artagnan warned and Antonio just clicked the pistol, grip tightening.

"Then answer my question," Antonio said and D'artagnan took in a breath, glancing behind at Philippes to see the man had his eyes closed, praying. His heart broke at the sight, the other musketeers watching on in horror.

Antonio rolled his eyes at their silence, walking over and flipping his pistol over in his hand. He slammed the butt of the pistol across Philippes' face before stepping back. He twisted the pistol once more to aim the barrel at Philippes' head, pressing it hard against the man's skull.

"Answer! Now!" The Captain said and Philippes opened his eyes to look at D'artagnan. The musketeer bit the inside of his cheek, struggling with his loyalty to the crown but not wanting to see his brother murdered in cold blood.

"I'm waiting," Antonio said and all D'artagnan could do was stare at Philippes, his friend shaking slightly in fear. "I can make his death painful," Antonio then warned, his free hand moving to his sword.

"There's a route along the Seine river, that's the one we use to get supplies to the front," D'artagnan finally said, hoping it was enough information to let Philippes live. He knew Athos too well to know he would have changed the route by now, not wanting to risk another ambush by the Spanish.

Antonio seemed to study him for a second before lowering his pistol.

The musketeers all let out a collective sigh in relief and D'artagnan thanked God for letting his brother live.

"Liar," Antonio suddenly said before lifting his pistol once more, D'artagnan's heart leaping into his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the reviews and kudos. Thank you for the encouragement to continue with this story, it's slowly coming along. Next chapter will be up soon, I promise :) Reviews are always welcomed.


	10. The Breakage

"Lair," Antonio said before lifting his pistol once more, D'artagnan's heart leaping into his throat.  
The shot rang loud through the trees, echoing in D'artagnan's ears as he watched his brother fall to the ground, blood splattering across the mud.

D'artagnan couldn't breathe, the shock of seeing Philippes murdered being too much for him. His breath caught in his throat as he stared down at his brother's lifeless body. He had told Antonio what he had wanted to know and he had still fired the shot.

The rest of the musketeers were suddenly in uproar, shouting at Antonio who simply stepped back, his men coming down hard on them.

Beaumont, one of the more quick tempered musketeers, managed to land a punch across one of the Spaniard's face before being shoved forcefully to the ground.

The Captain turned to look at D'artagnan who still knelt by the fire, staring at his friend's body. D'artagnan then gritted his teeth and quickly managed to pull himself up, ignoring the pain and driven by the anger that had built up quickly within him.

He ran at the Captain with a roar and managed to tackle him to the ground, landing harshly on top of him.

He slammed a punch into Antonio's face with difficultly, swinging both hands due to them being tied with rope. He got two more punches in when he was suddenly being pulled back by two Spanish soldiers grabbing him around the arms.

"I told you the truth!" D'artagnan shouted and Antonio simply stared blankly at him from where he had pushed himself up to sit.

D'artagnan pulled at the two Spaniards holding onto him, giving anything to be able to land a good kick in Antonio's stomach. However, his effort to break free was fruitless when he was tugged backwards, the Spaniards' hold on him too strong. He was suddenly thrown down to the ground, shouting so many colourful curses at the Captain that even Athos would be proud of him.

A boot kicked him roughly in the ribs and he had the wind knock out of him, silencing his shouted cursing.

Another kick and his ribs were screaming in protest, D'artagnan squeezing his eyes shut in pain and trying to curl up on himself to protect his already aching body. The Spaniard's boot connected with his ribs once again before landing a harsh kick at his face. A crack sounded and D'artagnan was sure his nose was broken from the sudden flare of pain radiating from it.

"Leave him," Antonio then called out to his men after coming to a stand and dusting himself off. The Spaniards stopped the beating before dragging D'artagnan back over to the musketeers, throwing him harshly down next to Duval and Beaumont.

Duval came to kneel down next to were D'artagnan simply laid on his front, his head turned to the side and gasping for breath.

"D'artagnan?" He mumbled to not draw more attention to them, the Captain having moved over to the fire and ignoring them as he cleaned his face up. "D'artagnan?" He repeated once their leader didn't reply.

D'artagnan laid there, his ears ringing and heart pounding in his chest, his eyes locked on to stare blankly at Philippes' back where he laid dead a few metres away.

"I-I'm... I'm f-fine," he finally managed to breathe out, the ringing slowly dying down in his ears. Duval's hand moved to D'artagnan's shoulder, lowering himself down to D'artagnan's level.

"No you're not, but that's okay," he simply said. "You want me to roll you over?" He then asked and D'artagnan squeezed his eyes shut in pain, humming in agreement.  
Duval glanced at Beaumont who helped him gently roll their leader over, stopping D'artagnan's back from hitting the ground hard.

He let out a groan, wincing in pain as he came to rest on his back on the dusty ground. He had little effort to move by himself, his body aching and throbbing. His chest was rising and falling slowly, trying to reduce the protect from his ribs. His breath came out shaky as he kept his eyes closed, focusing his mind on anything except the pain.

Beaumont ripped part of his shirt off before using it to gently wipe away the blood on D'artagnan's face from the broken nose.

"I'll have to snap it back into place," Beaumont said, and D'artagnan simply hummed in response, not bothering to reply with words. He squeezed his eyes shut and grunt as Beaumont snapped his nose back, cleaning the blood up once again with the ripped shirt.

"You look great," Beaumont said, trying to lighten the mood.

For a second D'artagnan felt as if Aramis was by his side, fixing him up like he did so many times before. He missed his brothers, his heart aching out for them all. He wanted to hear their voices, Porthos' booming laugh, Aramis' teasing words and Athos' dry tone.

He never knew how much they meant to him before his moment; he realised then that he had taken their time together for granted, knowing he would give anything to embrace them all into a tight hug once more.

He didn't sleep well that night, between Duval's loud snoring, Beaumont continuous shuffling next to him and the pain he was in, it was difficult to turn his mind off.

The presence of his dead brother laying a few metres away kept him awake until early in the morning, wishing he had done something more.

But what? What could he have done that would have given Philippes a different fate?

Tears formed in his eyes and he didn't force them back down, allowing them to fall down the side of his face and land on the ground where he laid. He broke down that night, the darkness allowing privacy even when he was surrounded by people. They were all asleep minus two Spanish guard who sat by the dying firing, keeping watch over the camp.

D'artagnan knew they were paying him no attention, which allowed him to silently cry without them knowing that Antonio was slowly getting to him.

After seeing the French soldiers get slaughtered and then to have his brother murdered in front of his eyes... He didn't know how much longer he could cope, the tears now flowing freely as he tried to suppress his sobs to not wake the musketeers around him.

After he had finally worn himself down, no more tears to be let free, his mind was slowly catching up to his tired body and beginning shutting down so he could rest.

He fell asleep early in the morning with the hope for his three brothers to find them soon and the guilt of Philippes' death playing on his mind. He knew he would never forgive himself for what had happened, his heart going out to Philippes' family.

With one last heavy sigh, D'artagnan slipped into a restless sleep, his mind and body finally giving up on him.

* * *

Aramis woke them early that morning, throwing his hat at Athos who laid the furthest away, before turning to give Porthos a gentle shake.

"I made breakfast," he then stated and Porthos click onto the smell of his cooking. "Eat up and then we can hit the trail," he said and Athos pulled himself up to sit, stretching his back as he did so before rolling his still aching shoulder.

He looked at the marksman and saw how much the man wanted to get back on the road. He let his eyes fall from Aramis' face and down to their breakfast, his stomach not fancying the food this morning.

Athos hadn't eaten much last night either and both his brothers had noticed. He just couldn't, nausea rising up within him each time he tried to eat. He thought of D'artagnan and how he knew the musketeers weren't getting fed enough while in the hands on the Spanish. It stopped him from eating, feeling greedy, however he decided if he wanted to get his brothers back he had to be fit. So he pushed down the nausea he felt after every bite of his breakfast, determined to eat quickly so they could push forward in finding the missing musketeers.

XXXX

Athos rode ahead of the two, eyes scanning the area to make sure it was clear. He couldn't stop his mind from thinking of D'artagnan, the rope laying abandoned on the ground and the blood in the dirt. It had gripped his dreams yesterday and from the look of both Aramis and Porthos he could tell it had kept them awake as well.

"Hold up!" Porthos suddenly called and Athos snapped from his thoughts to turn around quickly, a wave of worry washing over him. "That's D'artagnan's," the larger musketeer said before swinging his leg over and dropping down from his horse. Aramis slowly lowered himself down after Porthos, wincing slightly in pain from his still healing wound.

Porthos plucked up the feather that stuck out from the ground and twirled it in his fingers.

"It's from his hat," he said, glancing over at Aramis before his eyes rested on Athos.

"He's leaving a trail," Athos said, taking the feather from Porthos and studying it.

"So he's alive then," Aramis said what they were all thinking, the hang from the tree and the bloody injuries not taking D'artagnan down.

It seemed to bring a slight sense of ease over the three of them, finally knowing that their brother was alive and still focused enough to begin leaving a trail.

"It seems that way," Athos then said, looking up from the feather and at Aramis. They locked eyes and Aramis allowed a small smile to appear on his lips, flashing his teeth.

"Yet we don't know how badly injured he is," Porthos said, breaking the two away and causing them to look over at him. The larger musketeer shifted where he stood, still not being able to believe D'artagnan was safe until they had him and the others back.

"There's no trail of blood, that has to mean something right," Aramis said walking over to Porthos and clasping his brother on the shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. Porthos just nodded, looking down at the ground and taking a deep breath in.

Aramis and Athos both felt his pain, knowing that they would find the missing musketeers anywhere from unharmed.

They knew what happened when you were a prisoner of war, knew what it was like to be tortured for information. The pain would eat away at D'artagnan, his body giving up before his mind had a chance to stop it.

They all just hoped they would find him before the Spanish Captain could break him.

However Athos knew D'artagnan was strong, he had seen him grow from the reckless boy who strolled into the garrison fully intent on killing Athos to a man, a musketeer who was calm and collected, thought with his head and not with his heart.

"Let's continue," Athos spoke up, snapping them all from their thoughts of their brother and continuing on their journey to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, so much D'artagnan hurt. Hope you liked it though, leave a review :)


	11. The Nightmare

His brothers, all surrounding him with blood covering their uniforms and skin. Groans escaped their lips, Duval laying on his side and gripping his stomach as he doubled over in pain. Philippes stared at him, eyes wide in horror and mouth open slightly as he shook in pain.

D'artagnan stood within the middle of them, all too young to die this way. His breathing hitched as the smell of blood over whelmed him, causing his stomach to twist and sick to rise up in his throat.  
Suddenly, laughter echoed around him, ringing loud in his ears and making him wince violently. The Spanish Captain then suddenly stood before him, a grin spreading across his face and causing a shiver to make its way down D'artagnan's spine.

His breath caught in his throat as the laughter from the Captain washed over him, drowning him in fear.

"D'artagnan," a distance voice called out and D'artagnan tried to turn to it, sensing the familiarity of it but not managing to pin who it was.

He was met with his three brothers and he crumbled to the ground from the sight of their blood covered faces. He was on his hands and knees, begging for it to stop. The pain, the torment, the agony he was in from seeing the dying looks of his brothers around him. Before he could sink deeper into this nightmare and slip away forever, he was shook violently.

"D'artagnan, snap out of it!" The voice said and D'artagnan's eyes flew open, his breathing heavy as he gasp for air. His ribs suddenly protested against him, causing him to cry out as the pain finally washed over him.

"D'artagnan?" A different voice then asked, this time much softer as if they were trying not to scare him. He blinked back his blurring vision to focus on the concerned eyes of Duval, who was leaning over him with his tied hands gently on D'artagnan's shoulder.

"You with us?" He asked and D'artagnan just blinked up at him. "I'll take that as a yes," he then mumbled before leaning back on his heels with a sigh of relief.

"You were having a nightmare," Beaumont spoke up from where he sat crossed legged on the other side of D'artagnan, twisting his wrists against the rope and causing his skin to burn in protest. "Callling out our names and thrashing violently," he informed D'artagnan who still couldn't get his breathing stable, his heart hammering hard against his ribs.

He was shining with sweat, his clothes sticking uncomfortable to him where he laid staring blankly up at the morning sky. He tried to shake his mind from the nightmare, however it was still too fresh, everything seeming a little too real.

Duval glanced across at Beaumont in concern before looking over towards the Spanish soldiers. Most were still asleep, only a few of them having woken up when D'artagnan started mumbling in his sleep.  
Antonio was sat by the dying fire, eyes watching the three of them as the sun was slowly beginning to rise up ahead and indicating morning was upon them.

D'artagnan groaned, allowing his eyes to close as tiredness caught up with him. He regretted not getting enough sleep last night, however he didn't want sleep that was plagued with nightmares. He tried sitting up but only let out a cry in pain before falling back down to the ground in a huff.

"Take it easy," Duval warned, looking back over at D'artagnan and placing his bounded hands on the man's shoulder. "We'll help you sit up but you have to take it easy," Duval said and Beaumont hummed, still twisting his hands to loosen the rope around his wrists.

"I can't tell if your ribs are broken or just bruised from the beating you took last night, but it doesn't look good either way," Beaumont said and D'artagnan blinked his eyes up to look at the man.

Any other time D'artagnan would have seen Aramis staring down at him, a soft smile on his face as he began tending to his injuries. Porthos would be sat inches away, a hand on his shoulder or holding D'artagnan's hand in his own. Athos would be stood, arms crossed and watching the scene carefully with concern in his eyes.

However his brothers weren't here, he wasn't laying in bed after a brawl with the Red Guards in the local tavern with his brothers patching him up. He was laying in the middle of a forest, a brother laying dead near his feet and the enemy only a few metres away.

"Come on, let's get you up," Duval then said, his hands slipping from D'artagnan's shoulder to cup under his arm. Beaumont mirrored his actions and they slowly lifted D'artagnan up from the ground, the lead musketeer wincing and groaning in pain.

It took him a few minutes when he was sat up to allow the dizziness to slowly ease from him, his whole world spinning around him. He took in a shaky breath before blinking his eyes back open having closed him in the process of sitting up. He lifted his hands awkwardly to press his right forearm against his right side, hoping to squeeze the pain from his ribs away to only cause it to multiple.

"W-we... We have to... Bury him," D'artagnan breathed, his voice horse and he swallowed, his throat saw and burning for a drink of water. Duval and Beaumont followed their leaders eyes to see him staring at Philippes' now cold and stiff body.

They all held back tears for their fallen brother, the sight of him laying there having plagued all their dreams last night.

"How?" Another musketeer, Lamar, spoke up from behind them and D'artagnan didn't even have the effort to twist his head to look at the man. "The Spanish aren't going to let us bury him, he's just going to lie there and rot," Lamar grumbled and D'artagnan tensed, the words taking a hit against him.

"Hey, shut the hell up before I make you," Beaumont warned, glaring back at the man as he felt D'artagnan stiffen from Lamar's words.

Lamar went to reply, fully intent on going on the attack before D'artagnan let out a sigh.

"Don't," he said, mustering up all the energy he had to turn his head to look back at the young musketeer. "The last thing we want to do is start arguing, we need to stay strong," D'artagnan said. He knew the rest of them were getting anxious, with tiredness from walking and minimal sleep catching up with them. Plus the impact of limited food and water only added to their already starved bodies.  
Lamar seemed to back down slightly, not daring to go up against D'artagnan out of respect for his injuries and also for his leadership. They had all silently agreed to make D'artagnan the Captain of their small group and being a musketeer you always followed your Captain's orders no matter what they were.

The sound of movement cause D'artagnan to turn his head back around to see Antonio stride through the camp, sword by his side and already dressed in his leathers. He didn't even give the prisoners a glance their way, simply walking around the camp to wake his men.

"We leave in five, get up and ready," he ordered and his men quickly stumbled to a stand. Antonio then glanced over at D'artagnan with a smug smile on his lips. It made D'artagnan want to be sick, his anger towards the man rising to a new level.

"Can you walk?" Duval then asked, drawing D'artagnan's attention away from the Spanish Captain.

"Yes," he said with such force that Duval didn't question him. However, Beaumont did.

The musketeer let out a huffed laugh, causing both Duval and D'artagnan to look over at him.

"What?" He questioned them as if it was obvious to why he had laughed. "You honestly expect me to believe that you can walk, you can't even sit up without our help," Beaumont said and Duval glared across at the other musketeer as D'artagnan stayed quiet. He knew Beaumont was right, the effort it took to sit up already had D'artagnan wishing for sleep. "And don't even try to deny it," Beaumont then added and D'artagnan let a small smile appear on his lips.

"I wasn't going to," he simply said and Beaumont leant back slightly, looking at D'artagnan with a small frown having expected the injured man to go up against him.

He truly was tired, his determination to prove himself fit slowly drifting from him. His ribs throbbed in pain and D'artagnan began to dread the time that they were told to start moving again. He wished for his bed, he wished for food and water, a roof over his head instead of waking up to the sky. He wished for Constance, his heart aching for her and his brothers.

"Then how do you expect us to continue moving if D'artagnan can't even stand?" Duval asked, pulling D'artagnan from his thoughts and causing him to glance up at his two comrades.

"I don't know, I don't have the answer to everything," Beaumont said with a simple shrug.

"It sure seems that way," Lamar grumbled from behind once again.

"I don't appreciate your comment," Beaumont said and D'artagnan gave him a look.

"Stop arguing before I make Duval knock you both out," he warned with a stern look he knew would remind them all of Athos.

"I'll gladly do it," Duval said with a small smirk and they all suddenly laughed.

For a second, they had all forgotten where they were, thinking that they were back in the garrison and joking around.

However, once D'artagnan winced in pain from laughing they all settled back down, the smiles dropping quickly from their faces. Antonio ordered them to move, his men climbing onto their horses as the musketeer slowly pulled their aching bodies to stand.

"You ready?" Duval asked, both Beaumont's and his hands coming to hold D'artagnan's arms. The musketeer gave a quick and sharp nod, closing his eyes and readying himself for the pain he was about to be in.

"Okay, up we go," Beaumont said and they both gently began to help D'artagnan stand.

It took longer than they would have liked, D'artagnan grunting in pain with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. However they finally got him to stand, holding onto to him as he swayed slightly.

D'artagnan felt himself slipping, the darkness of unconsciousness seeming to appeal to him more than the long walk ahead of them.

However, he took a deep breath, allowing the dizziness to settle before blinking his eyes open.

"Let's go!" Antonio shouted at them and Beaumont sent a glare towards the Captain, however he bit down on the words he wanted to shout back at the man.

"Let's go," D'artagnan repeated, his voice much softer than Antonio's. Duval and Beaumont stayed close next to him, both of them glancing towards D'artagnan with concerned eyes just waiting for him to pass out.

However he didn't, gritting his teeth in determination as he focused on placing one foot in front of the other. He wasn't going to give in, he wasn't going to back down to Antonio even if it killed him.

* * *

Everyone stopped when shouting sounded from the entrance to the garrison, all turning around to see what was happening.

They was met with two musketeers, carrying one of the recruits in the middle of them, his arms slung over their shoulders and his head fallen to his chest. His feet were dragging along the floor, leaving a track along the mud. Blood dripped down from his chin, dripping onto the ground as he let out a groan.

"What happened?" Elodie asked, placing the basket of food she had been taking to one of the ration stations onto the table.

"Red guards happened," Brujon said, holding up the injured musketeer.

A few other musketeers came running over to help as Constance came down the stairs, Sylvie two steps behind.

"Get him to the medical room," Constance ordered and two other musketeers picked up Édouard's legs to take the pressure off his arms. They gently placed him on the bed, Édouard letting out a grunt in pain.

"Who did this?" Constance asked as Sylvie ordered Brujon to go get the doctor.

"Do you even have to ask?" Bernard said, crouching down next to the bed and brushing back Édouard's long hair to reveal the damage caused to his face. His nose was broken and lip busted, blood dripping down his chin and neck.

"Marcheaux's going to pay for this," one of the recruits said from the door and Constance glanced back at him.

"We'll deal with that later," she said before moving to get a bowl of water and a cloth. She sat down on the bed, Bernard helping her clean up his bloody face.

"His ribs took a beating," Bernard said and Constance looked up at him, eyes locking for a brief second before they both looked down at his shirt.

She moved to lift Édouard's shirt up and grimaced when she saw the bruises running along his chest. She saw Bernard ball his fists up in anger, growling in frustration as he stood up to pace.

"I'll kill him," Bernard grumbled.

"Like I said," Constance said, gently cleaning the grit from a cut along Édouard's cheek. "We'll deal with him later, we need to focus on Édouard first," she said and footsteps sounded from outside, Sylvie walking in with the doctor close behind her.

They exited the room, leaving the doctor to tend to Édouard's injuries.

Elodie leant against the wooden beam while Sylvie paced in front of her, fingers over her mouth as she thought. Sylvie sighed, running a hand through her hair and turning to face Constance and Elodie.

"What's the plan?" She then asked and Constance pushed up from the wall, walking over to stand next to Elodie.

"I don't know yet," Constance replied and Elodie glanced at her.

"We can't let Marcheaux think he can get away with this," Elodie said, glancing towards Sylvie who had began pacing once again. "If we don't do something there will be fights between the two regiments," she added and Constance simply hummed, glancing to where Bernard was stood protectively by the medical room waiting for the doctor to finish with Édouard.

"I know," Constance said, looking back at Eldoie as Sylvie paused, turning to face her friends. "And we will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, things have been getting on top of me at the moment. Hope the wait was worth it though. Thank you for the kudos and comments :)


	12. The Past

They rode along the muddy path, seeing a mixture of horse and human tracks. Athos kept his eyes forward, following the tracks as they trotted through the forest. Porthos rode to his right side while Aramis rode behind, the marksman glancing around the forest.

They all seemed to be riding with a little less tension in their shoulders. They knew their brother was out there, staying strong and fighting back against the Spanish. D'artagnan was alive and so were the others they had lost. The three of them were going to find them all, it wasn't a matter of if, it was a matter of when.

"Wait," Porthos mumbled so quietly that Athos wasn't sure if the larger musketeer had spoken. However, looking across at Porthos he saw the look of horror slowly form on his face. Athos turned to look ahead and his eyes landed immediately on what Porthos had seen.

For a second Athos was sure it was them, their missing brothers all murdered for them to stumble upon. However, once he strained his eyes he caught sight of their uniforms; they were French Soldiers, not Musketeers.

He allowed a wave of relief to wash him before guilt took over, disgusted in himself that he was relieved. Good men were dead.

Athos and Porthos glanced worryingly at each other as Aramis finally caught up with them, pulling his horse to a stop behind the two of them.

"What's wro-?" He asked but fell short, eyes landing on what his two brothers had seen. His breath hitched as he scanned the scene in front of them.

Aramis suddenly jumped down from his horse, ignoring the pain it caused him, and walked over to the men laying dead on the ground, blood covering their uniforms.

His whole world seemed to spin, pictures of Savoy flashing before him. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind but it only ended with him feeling even dizzier.

"Aramis?" He heard someone ask from a distance away, their voice fading as he stared down at one of the soldiers. The man's eyes were still open, staring blankly at nothing with his mouth open slightly.

"Aramis," the same voice asked again and he flinched as a hand came to rest on his shoulder, trying to drag him back from the past.

Suddenly Aramis turned and empty the content of his stomach, wrenching violently as the hand slipped to run circles on his back.

"Take it easy," Porthos said after Aramis had stopped, the man letting out a shaky breath. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the knots roughly. He then straightened, causing Porthos' hand to drop from his back.

He swallowed hard before his eyes landed back on the soldier, unable to take his eyes away from him. He suddenly felt anger grip him as he remembered seeing his brothers all dead, Marsac crying next to him after dragging him in the snow away from the bloody scene.

"They were all slaughtered! All of them! Just left for dead!" Aramis suddenly shouted, everything feeling a little too much like Savoy. He pushed the memories back as his heart pounded hard against his ribs.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All he could do was stare down at the bodies that laid helpless on the ground.

Suddenly a strong hand landed on his shoulder, twisting him around before he was pulled into a tight embrace.

Aramis focused on Porthos' strong hold on him, it was the only thing keeping him grounded and not slipping back... Back to Savoy.

A cough suddenly sounded and Athos turned, seeing one of the French soldiers eyes flicker open. The Captain quickly crouched down next to the soldier, a hand coming to rest on the man's chest.

"Easy," he mumbled as the soldier tried to move to only wince in pain, letting out a cry. "Easy," he repeated and the man rested his head back against the tree he was leaning against, eyes closing shut.  
"What happened here?" Athos then asked softly and the soldier blinked his eyes open to try and focus on Athos.

"T-There were t-too... Too...Too many," he mumbled. "T-they... headed South," he said before coughing, wincing as the cough shook his whole body. Athos was surprised the soldier had managed to stay alive let alone speak, the injury he had sustained causing his shirt to be covered with blood.

"It's alright, you're going to be alright," Athos then said however he doubted his own words. There was too much blood; the wounds too serious to be treated. "Just rest my friend," he said and the soldier simply closed his eyes, leaning his head back before letting out a soft breath.

Athos kept his hand on the man's chest until he felt no movement underneath it, the soldier having finally taken his last breath.

He closed his eyes briefly, morning the passing of the soldier he didn't even know the name of. He then stood, glancing over towards Porthos who still held Aramis. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the knots before letting his arm drop to his side with a heavy sigh.

Clue number two, he thought to himself as he looked around the small camp.

"We bury them," Aramis spoke up and Athos turned to look at him, seeing the medic having pushed his head up from Porthos' chest but not moved out of the embrace.

They didn't argue against Aramis, knowing he wouldn't take no for an answer. Athos and Porthos took to moving the bodies, telling Aramis they would do it all. However, the stubborn and injured man ignored them.  
"Aramis," Porthos said after placing one of the soldiers down by the grave Aramis was currently digging. He saw the sweat running down Aramis' forehead and how his actions seemed more sluggish. "Aramis," Porthos then said again, trying to get his brothers attention. However Aramis kept digging, his mind too focused on the task at hand to be aware of his surroundings.

"He's not going to answer you," Athos spoke up before moving to the last soldier in the camp. Porthos glanced back at the Captain and then gave one last look at his hurting brother before following after him.

"We're getting closer," Athos then said as he moved to grab the soldier's upper body.

"How do you know?" Porthos asked as he grabbed the man's legs before they hauled him up. They began carrying to heavy body towards the large grave, moving slowly to not stumble over the tree roots.

"By the soldier. He couldn't have survived long with those injuries," Athos informed him. "It means this happened no earlier than yesterday," he said before they gently lowered the soldier's body next to the others.

"That means we're close to finding D'artagnan and the others," Porthos added and Athos nodded. Before he could respond Aramis let out a cry in pain, slumping forward and gripping his side.

"Aramis!" They both shouted before jumping down into the large grave. Porthos' hand came to rest on Aramis as the man gasped for breath, eyes squeezed shut in pain.

Aramis removed his hand from his side and found it covered in blood. He glanced up at his brothers, Athos growling in frustration.

"You fool, you've pulled the stitches," Athos said, one hand coming to grip the wrist of Aramis' bloody hand while the other went to lift his shirt up. "Get him out," he then ordered when seeing the blood stained bandages.

Porthos obeyed, scooping Aramis up into his arms and climbing out of the grave. He lowered Aramis down against a tree, the marksman letting out a soft grunt as he leaned back. Athos then came to kneel down next to him, Aramis' medical kit in his hands.

"I'm sorry," Aramis mumbled, glancing up at his Captain who simply lifted Aramis' shirt up before pealing back the bandages to study the wound.

"He's fine Porthos," Athos then said, sensing the worry radiating from his brother. "I just need to clean and re-stitch the wound," he told the larger musketeer who seemed to ease at his words. Aramis moved to take the edge of his shirt from Athos and hold it up for him.

While Athos worked at cleaning and stitching the wound up Porthos lowered the eight men into the large grave. He was currently finishing off burying them when Athos pulled the final stitch, leaning back to look at Aramis.

"Stop it. I hate it when you look at me like that," Aramis said, looking away from Porthos and across at Athos, who was giving him one of his stern look.

"I'm not the one who's working myself to death," Athos said, his tone drier than normal. Aramis simply sighed, leaning back to rest his head against the tree and close his eyes.

"I said I was sorry," he mumbled, feeling the guilt take over him as Athos watched him through narrowed eyes. It was then Athos' turn to sigh, leaning back on his heels before pulling himself up to stand.

"It's fine," he grumbled before turning to look at Porthos who had finished burying the men.

He understood why Aramis hadn't stopped, knowing the man's mind was replying the scenes of Savoy and too busy to think about himself. He had told him stop but that had been no use.

After Aramis had found strength and pulled himself up to stand, he said a pray from the fallen soldiers with his hand clasped tightly around his cross.

Porthos stood next to him, a hand resting on Aramis' shoulder to show his brother he was there for him.

Athos stood a few steps behind, his mind rushing with images of the soldiers lying dead in the camp. His mind then slipped to D'artagnan, memories of watching the Gascon get hit and how for a second, Athos had thought it had been them dead on the ground.

He took a deep breath, blinking back tears that had managed to fill his eyes without him knowing.

They needed to find D'artagnan and the others… they needed to find them and find them quick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked this chapter, tell me what you thought :)


	13. The Hopeful

"Do you have no mercy? Not even a shred of it?" D'artagnan questioned, his voice threateningly low as he stared at Antonio. The Captain titled his head, studying D'artagnan through narrowed and curious eyes.

They were stood by a river, Antonio's men cleaning up while their horses drank. D'artagnan had made the mistake of asking for them to be allowed to clean up too, the musketeers all tired and sweaty from the long walk. Antonio had merely waved his request away which only angered D'artagnan, causing his hatered for the man to, if it was even possible, increase.

"When the musketeers get here, and trust me they will, I will make sure that they offer you and your men no mercy," D'artagnan warned with a growl, the anger that had been building up within him over the past few days now so close to the surface he could almost touch it. "You can also be assured, and trust me when I say this because musketeers always keep their word, that I will be the one to personally condemn you to hell," D'artagnan finished, hands balled up in fists as he glared at the Captain.

"You never fail to amuse me D'artagnan," Antonio simply said before ordering three of his men to watch them.

"You won't be smiling when I'm piercing your sword through your chest," D'artagnan grumbled back as Antonio made his way over to the river.

"Relax," Duval mumbled in his ear, leaning over towards him.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Beaumont asked from his right, glancing over at D'artagnan with a slight amused look.

"Anything would be better than seeing that man's face again," D'artagnan growled as he watched Antonio crouch down by the river.

"You don't mean that," Duval said, looking at D'artagnan with concern in his eyes.

"Of course I don't, it's just..." D'artagnan began but struggled to find the right words.

"Anything, even death, is better than this," Lamar mumbled from behind them where he and the other musketeers sat on the ground, too defeated by the walk to stand at this moment in time.

"We'll make it," Duval said, glancing towards Beaumont who simply shrugged before turning away.

"Might as well settle down for a few minutes, we'll be off again soon," Beaumont said as he flopped down onto the grass covered ground, leaning his back against the tree and closing his eyes.

"I fear I won't be able to get back up if I sit," D'artagnan said and Duval slipped his hands around D'artagnan's arm, guiding him towards the tree Beaumont was sat against.

D'artagnan winced as he pressed his back against the tree, deciding to stay stood since he knew he would pass out from the pain of sitting down to only have to climb to a stand minutes later.

Duval stood in front of him, looking into D'artagnan's eyes to make sure the musketeer was ok before sitting down on the other side of Beaumont.

D'artagnan studied the group of musketeers in front of him, feeling the burden of getting them through this alive lie heavy on his shoulders. He knew he had to keep Antonio's attention on himself to make sure the younger musketeers were spared. However, he knew soon his body would give up on him even though his mind would try push to keep standing tall against Antonio.

D'artagnan was determined to make sure no more harm would come to his men, he had seen one brother fall because of him... He couldn't watch another.

His mind slipped to Philippes, missing the musketeer's presence next to him. He was thankful Duval and Beaumont had decided to be his protectors but he truly missed Philippes. His heart ached for the boy's family, knowing he had to be the one to deliver the news. He was a good man and died trying to protect his country.

D'artagnan felt the guilt of his death weigh down on his chest as if it was almost suffocating him.  
Suddenly, a hand pushed him roughly in the shoulder and he stumbled to the side. Thankfully, Beaumont had quick reflexes and his hands came up in a second to stop D'artagnan falling on top of him.

"Time to go, scum," the guard said before grabbing D'artagnan by the shirt pushing him forward. Beaumont's hands slipped from his grip on D'artagnan's arm and D'artagnan fell to the floor with a cry of pain.

"Hey!" Beaumont shouted, his anger finally snapping as he pushed himself up to stand. Beaumont lunged for the Spaniard, managing to land a punch across the man's jaw and then kick him in the stomach, causing him to double over. Beaumont then kneed the man in the chest before pushing him backwards, causing the Spaniard to stumble to the floor.

Before he could do anything more, Duval was behind him, bring his tied arms over Beaumont's head to then pull back against the man's chest.

"Stop," Duval ordered, his voice low in Beaumont's ear as the angry musketeer struggled against his hold.

The Spaniard's were all suddenly surrounding them, pistols raised and aimed at their heads.  
"You don't need to do this, they'll take it out on D'artagnan," Duval mumbled and at those words Beaumont stilled, taking in a breath to calm himself.

"You good?" Duval then asked and Beaumont simply nodded, causing Duval to remove his hold on him.

"You'll pay for that," the injured guard heaved out, trying to catch his breath.

"No he won't, let him be," Antonio said, moving through his men to stand at the front.

Duval glanced at the leader, Beaumont glaring, before he crouched down next to his own.

"D'artagnan?" Duval asked, his hands going to rest on the Gascon's back. The man was wheezing for breath, his eyes squeezed shut in pain from his throbbing ribs.

D'artagnan simply groaned, the immense pain he was in rendering him incapable of stinging any words together to voice a reply.

"Get him up," Antonio suddenly ordered his men, waving lazily at where D'artagnan laid.

"No," Beaumont snapped, moving to stand protectively over D'artagnan. However he was shoved to the side as well as Duval, two Spaniard's moving over to roughly pull D'artagnan to stand.

The musketeer cried out, any movement sending a wave of pain coercing through his already beaten body.

He swayed slightly on his feet, keeping his eyes shut as he forced down the limited amount of food in his stomach from coming back up. He stayed perfectly still, waiting for his dizziness to slowly fade and his world to stop spinning. He took in a shaky breath before blinking his eyes open to meet Antonio's smirking face.

D'artagnan felt anger rush through him but he bit his tongue to stop from lashing out at the leader.

"Shall we head out again?" He asked D'artagnan with a smirk. "Not going to faint on us now are you?" He questioned as D'artagnan swayed slightly from the dizziness that he was trying to shake off.

"After you," D'artagnan managed to say without causing himself too much pain.

Antonio smiled at him before turning, walking over to his horse.

"Gentlemen," Antonio called, his men lowering their weapons before climbing onto their horses.

"I'm going to kill that bastard," Beaumont mumbled as they started to walk, one side of D'artagnan's slumped form leaning against him.

"Not if I get to him first," Lamar said, falling into step next to Beaumont.

"There's a line gentlemen and I do believe that D'artagnan has first hit," Duval said from the other side of D'artagnan, his hands on their leader's arm to make sure he didn't fall.

"First and only hit," D'artagnan mumbled, glancing across at his brothers.

"You think the others are going to find us?" Remey suddenly asked from behind, the now youngest of the musketeers after Philippes. It took D'artagnan everything in his powers to steady himself as he turned his head to look back at Remey.

"I have faith in Athos," D'artagnan simply said before turning to focus on walking, his mind spinning slightly.

All for one and one for all, he told himself.

He doubted his words the second they slipped from his mouth. However, he was quickly cursing himself for even thinking his brothers wouldn't get to them in time. Of course they would, D'artagnan was sure of it.

Then why couldn't he stop the doubt crawling in from the back of his mind?


	14. The Trauma

Treville sat at his desk, trying to read the papers in front of him with his unfocused mind. He couldn't concentrate, his thoughts elsewhere. His mind was on his men, well not his men, not anymore. They were Athos' men but he still considered them as his sons, even though he was the first minister now.

He thought of D'artagnan, hoping that the young musketeer and the others who were taken would be returned to them shortly. He knew Athos, Porthos and Aramis were following a lead they had gotten from one of the prisoners, Athos having keeping him updated with what was happening through the letters that they had exchanged.

With a heavy sigh, Treville leant back into his chair, deciding that the papers could wait. Instead he stood, deciding to head to the garrison and see how things were holding up.

Once he got there, he climbed from his horse to find Elodie and Sylvie sat at the table in the yard with Marie, a few of the recruits training in the centre. He looked up to see Constance walking down the stairs, papers in her hands and a frown on her face as she read them.

"Constance," Treville greeted and the woman looked up. The frown on her face disappeared the second her eyes landed on him, a small smile appearing on her lips.

"Treville, it's nice to see you," Conatance said, coming to the bottom of the stairs before gesturing over to the table where Sylvie and Elodie were sat.

"What are you reading?" He asked her as he took a seat down opposite her and next to Sylvie.

"The supply numbers. We seem to be running through them quicker than we can restock," Constance said with a sigh, placing the papers onto the table in front of her. "We have another set coming in later today, but it's limited due to most supplies going to the front line," she said to Treville who nodded in understanding, knowing Constance was finding it hard to run the garrison with the war hanging over their heads like a thick black cloud.

"Have you heard anything from Athos?" Sylvie then asked.

"They're following something up," Treville said and Constance straightened, hope of finding D'artagnan suddenly rising within her. "It's only a lead from a prisoner though," Treville added and Constance nodded.

"But it's still something," Elodie said, freeing a hand up from holding Marie to take Constance's and give it a squeeze.

"I trust Athos, Porthos and Aramis are doing whatever it takes to find them," Sylvie and Treville hummed in agreement.

"I'll keep you updated but I won't be getting any letters from Athos until they come back from following the lead up," Treville said, glancing towards Constance and feeling the woman's pain. "I heard about Marcheaux and Édouard," Treville began and Constance sighed.

"We're dealing with it," she replied and Treville raised an eyebrow at her.

"Nothing too dramatic though Constance, I can't have the two regiments at each other throats," he said and Sylvie turned to look at him.

"The Red Guards shouldn't have come after one of us," Sylvie said before leaning forward to grab herself a drink from the centre of the table. Treville looked at Sylvie before glancing to Constance, seeing the dark bags under her eyes.

"How are you coping?" He then asked. Constance took her time to answer, thinking of the right words to say.

"It's a struggle," she then began. "But I have the garrison and these two to keep me occupied. The thing that is the most painful is knowing D'artagnan and the others are going through hell," she said and Elodie gave her hand another reassuring squeeze.

"They're strong soldiers," Treville then said. "I'm sure they all will be retuned to us safely," he said and Constance hummed, glancing down at the table.

"But how much damage would this ordeal have caused them?" Constance then asked and Treville fell silent.

"Wars difficult but they're strong," he simply said before standing, bidding them a farewell and climbing onto his horse.

He kicked his horse into action, slowly riding through the streets of Paris to the palace.

He couldn't stop his mind from slipping back to his men and wondering what the hell was happening to them. He knew the Spaniard's would be putting them through tough times, draining them physically. However, he wondered how much it would affect them mentally.

He had seen what war could do to a man, good and strong men falling to the trauma that was war.

Being a prisoner, tied up in an enemy camp, God knows what that could do to a man.

He thought of Aramis and how the marksman had stumbled into the garrison after Savoy. He had looked like a shell of a man, bones showing from the limited amount of food he had eaten. Dry blood covered his face and clothes, a bandaged poorly wrapped around his head.

He remembered how Aramis' screams had woken the garrison late in the night, Porthos and Athos not daring to leave their brothers side no matter what. He would come into Aramis' room, after the screaming had quieten, to find Porthos cradling Aramis against his chest with Athos sat mere inches away from them. The look on both their faces were a sight to remember, scarring his thoughts of how much pain he could feel from all three of his men.

So yes, war was a terrible thing and he tried to avoid it no matter what, seeing what it could do to someone. It could strip a man of who he was and leave a shell that was completely unrecognisable.

He had been to war before, knew what it was like to face the enemy head on. His heart went out to the musketeers, they were out there protecting France while he sat behind a desk buried under piles of paper.

Treville let out a sigh as he rounded the corner to the gravel road up to the palace. He kicked his horse into a soft gallop, dust and bits of rock kicking up as he rode to the palace. One of the stable boys came running over, quickly taking Treville's horse by the reins as the minister climbed down.

He thanked the boy before entering the palace, dusting his clothes of slightly as he did so. He walked down the corridor to round the corner and find the Queen walking with her son and a few of her maids walking behind.

"Your Majesty," Treville said, bowing as she came to a stop in front of him.

"Treville," she said with a soft smile. "Do we have any word from the front?" She asked and Treville knew who she was enquiring about.

"The Captain and a few of his men are following a lead up in rescuing the missing musketeers, however there had been no word of their return to camp," he informed Anne and she nodded, looking down at her son who simply stared up at Treville.

"Thank you Treville, please keep me updated if you hear anything," the Queen said and Treville nodding.

"Of course Your Majesty," he said before bowing, the Queen and her son moving to walk passed him.  
He straightened up as the Queen's maids and a few of her ladies in waiting walked by. He watched them walk down the corridor before disappearing around the corner.

With a heavy sigh Treville turned and walked, heading towards his office and trying not to think of the worst for his musketeer's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I'd thought I better put two chapters up to make it up to you guys. Thanks for the reviews and kudos, they make my day. Tell me what you thought of this chapter :)


	15. The Plan

D'artagnan was sure he had passed out at some point, because one second he was walking between his two brothers and the next he was practically being carried by them, tied arms looped around Duval's neck while Beaumont tried to hold up D'artagnan's over side.

He made no effort in lifting his head up from where it hung low, he instead tried to make his legs work again. They eventually picked up to walk with Duval, his feet stumbling slightly but it took some of his dead weight off of his brother.

"You back with the living?" Beaumont asked and D'artagnan simply groaned, blinking his eyes open finally.

Duval titled his head to glance across at the injured man, impressed with how determined D'artagnan was to stay awake. He had been pretty sure their leader would have been out for the whole journey, however here he was, awake again and trying to take most of his weight back.

"How long?" D'artagnan asked and Lamar glanced up at the sky, the sun slowly beginning to disappear behind the trees.

"You passed out at around two, I'd say it was getting close to evening now," he informed them from behind, where he walked with the others.

"We have to be stopping soon," Duval said, glancing towards the Captain who rode ahead of the group of Spaniards.

"I'm not carrying him again if he passes out," Beaumont stated, rolling his aching shoulders. He had literally just passed D'artagnan on to Duval when he suddenly decided to wake up.

"You won't need to," D'artagnan grumbled, slowly removing his arms from around Duval's neck. Granted he still needed their support holding him up by the arms. However, he managed to stay on his own two feet and hold most of his weight without swaying sideways.

"You're the most determined person I have ever met," Beaumont stated with a small smirk.

"I've heard that before," D'artagnan said as he remembered Athos saying that to him when training.

D'artagnan had been put through his paces throughout the years of being a musketeer, but in those first few weeks of training, Athos had worn him out and stripped him down. However, he got back up after ever hit, rolled his shoulders and readied himself for Athos' next attack.

The memory brought a small smile to his lips which soon flattened when Antonio slowed his horse down.

"There it is gentleman," he said as they finally came to a stop at the entrance of a large clearing with a river running alongside the left of the camp. It was a prefect set up, the river protecting them from one side with the trees and a banking on the other allowing areas to scout down the path for any intruders coming their way. "The main camp, the end of the line," Antonio said aloud for the prisoners benefits. It was like he was trying to dishearten them even more, to keep digging away at the last few shreds of hope the musketeers had left.

He turned on his horse to look back at D'artagnan who simply mustered up enough energy to glare at the man, knowing his brothers around him were doing the same.

"You shouldn't look so angry my friends," Antonio said before climbing down from his horse; one of the younger Spaniard's at the camp came running over to take his horse from him. "We're putting you in a tent to sleep in and going to bring you all water, possibly some food. Can't have you dying from starvation now, can we," he said, coming to stop in front of D'artagnan and the other two. He glanced at Duval and then at Beaumont before his eyes finally settled on D'artagnan who was almost shaking with rage towards the man.

"Rather die of starvation then have to listen to you," D'artagnan grumbled and Antonio simply laugh, merely waving at D'artagnan's comment before turning, gesturing to a few of his men.

"Move," one of them said as Antonio walked off into the busy camp, looking for the General. "Now!" The blonde man then snapped, pushing Remey in the shoulder and forcing him forwards.

"Alright alright, we're going," he said before walking, following after one of the Spaniard's towards a tent on the outskirts of the camp. The solider opened the flap and walked in after the musketeer's, two other guards following.

It was just a tent, no beds or tables. Nothing. Just the structure of a tent over hard ground.

A few moments later two Spanish soldiers walked in, one dropping a plate of bread and cheese onto the ground, the bread rolling onto the dust covered earth. The other dropped two water skins next to the plate before moving to stand outside and keep watch, while two stayed within the tent.

Lamar was the first to reach out to the plate, crouching down to pick the bread up and dust it off. Duval ignored the food, his main focus being D'artagnan, the leader having slowly started falling forwards where he stood.

D'artagnan winced as Duval forced him down to sit on the ground, leaning him up against one of the poles that supported the tent.

"How you feeling?" Duval asked and D'artagnan simply kept his eyes closed, humming a weak response.

"Here," Beaumont's voice came from the left of him and D'artagnan opened one eye to see the other man holding out a water skin. D'artagnan lifted his hands up to take the water, gulping it down greedily before forcing himself to pull it away. He regretted doing it, wanting nothing more than to drink it all but knew he had to save some for his brothers.

"We need to plan a way out of this," D'artagnan then said after wiping his mouth and handing Duval the water skin. He kept his voice low so only Duval and Beaumont could hear him, the guards stood by the entrance oblivious to what D'artagnan was planning.

"I thought you said you had faith in Athos?" Beaumont questioned with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk as Duval took a drink of water.

"And I still do," D'artagnan said, his voice strong even in his weak state. "But I don't know how long it'll be before Antonio finally snaps," he said as Duval passed the water skin back to Beaumont.

"So what do you have in mind then?" Duval asked, glancing back at the guards before turning fully to face D'artagnan.

"We need to assess the situation of the camp; how many guards do they have? When do they change shifts? What's the number of Spaniard soldiers actually here within the camp?" D'artagnan began, focusing his racing mind and taking up his leadership role within their small group. "Until we can see what's happening out there, there is no way we can get out of here alive," he said and Duval and Beaumont both nodded in response.

Their conversation was interrupted by Lamar handing them some bread to share.

"God I can't wait to get back to the French camp and eat proper food," Beaumont grumbled as he picked at his small portion of bread, eating it though but still managing to complain.

Duval just hummed in agreement, settling down next to D'artagnan and watching the guards through narrowed eyes.

"We'll get out of this," Duval then said and by the force of his words, both D'artagnan and Beaumont believed him.

* * *

Once again the three musketeers stumbled upon something they wished they hadn't. Another bloody scene however there were less bodies, only one this time.

Athos' breath hitched as he noticed the uniform and he felt his heart beat increase dramatically as his mind thought of all the names of his men. He swung a leg over his horse, abandoning the reins and simply running over to the musketeer that laid on his side.

When he got there he stumbled to a holt, the blood that splattered across the ground and the slow smell of rotting flesh reaching his nose. He grimaced at the sight, the musketeer being shot in the head. He crouched down, a shaking hand gripping the man's shoulder before rolling him over.

"Philippes," he said loud enough so his brothers, who were running up behind him, could hear. "They shot him in the head," Athos said.

"Bastards," Porthos grumbled, his hands balling up into tight fists, straining the leather of his gloves.

Aramis just stood there in silence, watching as Athos closed Philippes' eyes to grant him rest. He did a mental pray, cursing himself slightly when he felt a small wave of relief rush over when Athos had said who it was.

A loss is a loss, a life had been taken once again by the Spanish and Aramis couldn't help feeling slightly relieved it wasn't D'artagnan.

His heart ached for Philippes, the boy had shown courage in training back at the garrison, always being eager to learn. He had taught the boy some of his shooting skills and had always seen how he listened to his every word.

He removed his hat from his head and placed it against his chest, eyes closing briefly to morn his brothers passing.

They were back on the road within the hour, Aramis and Porthos leading the way with Athos trailing behind the two of them.

They all were slumped slightly in their saddles, all heavy hearted and feeling the weight of the world on their shoulders.

"What if..." Porthos suddenly began but felt too guilty to continue his words. Aramis glanced across at the larger musketeer, the hand on his reins moving to grip his cross. "What if, you know, when we get there the Captain's already..." Porthos wondered off and Aramis took in a breath, knowing what his friend was trying to say.

Athos ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the knots as he overheard the conversation in front. He let out a breath before lowering his arm back down to grip the horses reins.

"I know it's a worrying thought Porthos," Athos began, finally speaking after what felt like ages, having fallen into silence with worry for his missing brothers a few hours ago. "And it's a possibility, but I know D'artagnan and the others will have fought until their last breath if that was to happen," Athos said and Porthos swallowed hard, trying to force down his tears. "Which it won't," Athos then added and both his brothers looked back at him. "D'artagnan's too damn determined and stubborn to let that happen," Athos said, the side of his lips curling up into a slight smile. The others returned it, letting out a shaky laugh before they fell silent, glancing forward again and at the path ahead.

"The boy is pretty determined," Aramis began a few moments later. "Remember when he strode into the garrison that day," he said, a fond smile forming on his face. "And nearly killed Athos with his excellent sword skills," Aramis teased, turning his head to glance at Athos with a slight hint of sarcasm laced within his voice.

"I was going easy on him," Athos simply said, giving Aramis a look that caused Porthos to chuckle.

"How on earth he thought he could take on the best swordsman in the regiment I have no idea," Porthos spoke up and the three chuckled, Athos shaking his head slightly.

He remembered seeing the determination set in D'artagnan's eyes, the potential he had to grow to be one of the best.

"His temper nearly got him killed that day," Athos said.

"I distinctly remembering you saying that we weren't going to kill him," Aramis said, turning back to look at Athos, who simply shrugged, kicking his horse to move in between Aramis and Porthos.

"Let's go get our brothers back shall we," Athos then said and the two nodded, jaws set in determination before they kicked their horses into a gallop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the reviews, hope you enjoyed this chapter :)


	16. The Interrogation 2

D'artagnan sat resting against the tent pole, eyes closed and chest rising and falling gently. He had focused his mind to think of something other than the sharp pain he got when he drew in breath. 

Constance. 

She was his saviour as always, the thought of her was keeping him from slipping to the darkest parts of his pained mind. It kept him from thinking the worst of their situation, although there were no positives to be seen at this moment in time. 

The thought of her pushed back the image of Philippes dead body still lying on the cold ground, rotting away slowly. It stopped him from breaking down, knowing his brother would not see rest until he was buried, which could be never. Constance stopped D'artagnan from reliving the death, the scene of slaughter as the Spanish took out the French soldiers. 

Constance was his light and he refused to let the Spanish break him from it. 

Just as peace was settling throughout the small tent, Beaumont now fast asleep even though it was only early evening, the tent flap was pulled back and the Captain strode in. The calm before the storm now broken and the storm was looking to bring a good fight just from the menacing look on Antonio's face. 

Duval gave a quick elbow into Beaumont's ribs to wake the snoring musketeer.

"What?" He grumbled as he rubbed his face, blinking back sleep in his eyes. 

"Question time my friends," the Captain said before Duval could speak, opening his arms out wide with a large smile on his face. "Your lives gentlemen," he said, looking at each and every one of the musketeer prisoners with a grin. "Is in his hands," he finished, gesturing to D'artagnan who had stiffened the second Antonio had walked into the tent. 

"I beg to differ," D'artagnan grumbled, his patience running thin and his annoyance taking over. 

"But it is my dear friend. An answer for a life," Antonio said, his eyes casting a look across at Beaumont and then landing on Duval. "It seems these two have become your somewhat protectors, they shall be the first," he said and Duval froze, his muscles tensing at the thought of the pistol by Antonio' side pointing at his head. 

"It seems to me like you think I'm the one pulling the trigger," D'artagnan said, dragging Antonio's gaze away from his two brothers and back to focusing on him. "You are the one who pulls the trigger, gives the order for their death," D'artagnan said, playing the game Antonio has been desperately trying to push D'artagnan to play. 

"That's where you are wrong D'artagnan," the Captain said, a smirk forming on his lips that D'artagnan knew would haunt his dreams. "I maybe pulling the trigger but it's you who gives the order by simply not answering my questions," he said and D'artagnan lifted his head slightly, studying the Captain. 

"Questions I don't now have the answer to. The Captain will have changed the battle plans, their supply routes, locations of French parties..." D'artagnan wondered off, seeing a small flare of anger rise up within the Captain's eyes before it was replaced with a neutral look. 

"You do truly fascinate me D'artagnan," Antonio said.

"Many people have said that before," D'artagnan replied sarcastically before Antonio had strode the few steps between them, closing the gap and pressing his face awfully close to D'artagnan's. 

The Captain didn't reply, simply studied D'artagnan through narrowed and curious eyes before letting his lips crack up into a smile. 

"Drag him outside, bring the two shits along as well. They can enjoy the show," Antonio said to the men stood behind him, holding D'artagnan's gaze for a few more seconds before pulling away. 

D'artagnan and Duval allowed the guards to grab them and drag them outside while Beaumont sent a colourful array of swear words directed at the guards. 

D'artagnan was slammed face first into one of the trees once outside and let out a grunt before pushing himself to stand again. 

He turned slowly to look at Antonio before glancing back at Duval and Beaumont with a silent warning to stay quite. 

"First question," Antonio began, crossing his hands in front of him and staring down D'artagnan. "The location of the French parties?" Antonio asked and D'artagnan took a breath, grinding his teeth as he prepared himself for the beating he knew was coming no matter his answer. 

Before he could reply Antonio interrupted him by putting his hand up. 

"Before you start, I want to remind you what happened to your little friend the last time you lied to me," Antonio said and D'artagnan titled his head slightly. 

"As I recall, I wasn't lying. You're just too dumb a fool to realise," D'artagnan snapped and bit his tongue when he realised he had gone too far. He had warned Duval and Beaumont to stay quite when he should have warned himself. 

Antonio slammed a fist into D'artagnan's ribs that he was sure this time broke one of them, the pain causing him to stumble to his knees and for dark spots to dance around the edge of his vision. 

"You'll pay for this you bastard!" Beaumont shouted as he thrashed against the guards hold on him. Antonio simply turned away from facing D'artagnan to look at Beaumont. 

"I'd be careful what you say, it will only means more pain for your dear leader here," Antonio said with a smile, which got the response of two glares from Duval and Beaumont. 

"He's told you everything he knows last tim-" Duval began but was stopped short by Antonio slamming a fist into his jaw, his ring cutting at the musketeer's skin.

Duval stumbled backwards slightly and Beaumont trashed even more, gritting his teeth and using every inch of willpower he had to not break free now and kick Antonio in the balls. 

"Captain," one of his men called, walking over to them. "You're needed in the main tent, more battle plans from the general," the soldier said and Antonio nodded. 

"Sadly it looks like we're going to have to cut this short gentlemen," Antonio said, turning back to D'artagnan to see the man had fallen to the ground. "Such a sight," he simply said before nodding for his men to drag them away. 

D'artagnan was grabbed by the arms and pulled along the ground, head hanging low and ribs throbbing painful against the movement.

D'artagnan took in a shaky breath as a single tear managed to make its way down his cheek. He didn't know if he was crying from the physical pain or the mental pain of realising it may be too late for his brothers to get here. 

If only D'artagnan had known the three were only mere metres away in the covers of the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're so close


	17. The rescue plan

The three pulled their horses up a mile down the track where it divided into two, all lowering themselves down to the ground.

"We'll take to the cover of the trees," Athos suggested, having spotted the horse and human tracks that they had been following had wondered off to the right. 

After a while, they found a small clearing to tie their horses up in and then continued on foot. Aramis lead the way, scanning up ahead while Porthos and Athos kept eyes around them. 

Aramis suddenly stopped, holding a hand up and looking straight forward. His brothers froze behind him, trying to listen out for what Aramis had heard. 

"Get down," Aramis said before crouching and then moving slowly forward. 

They came to a small banking and silently climbed up to lay at the top in the leaves to look down at the Spanish camp. 

"D'artagnan," they all mumbled when their eyes landed on him being pushed roughly against a tree outside one of the smaller tents in the camp. 

Porthos and Aramis watched with their hearts in their throats, giving anything to be able to run down the banking and rescue their brother.   
On the other hand, Athos was scanning the camp, trying to remember every detail of it and formulate a rescue plan in his mind. He looked at where the guards were station, how many of them there were, where they kept the horses and which tent was which. He spotted the Captain's tent a mile off, the largest of them all with the Spanish flag flying above it.

"We'll sneak into the camp at night, take out as many Spaniard's as we can and bring D'artagnan and the others back," Athos mumbled as he finally turned to look at D'artagnan and then the two other musketeers stood behind the Captain. He narrowed his eyes and recognised them as Duval and Beaumont. 

"You want to take on all those men, Athos that's suicidal. We can't just charge at them," Aramis said, his concern for D’artagnan clouding his thoughts. Athos glanced over at him, seeing the pain for D'artagnan in Aramis' eyes but also how stupid Aramis thought his plan was.

"I didn't say we simply charge," Athos replied and Aramis let a small frown appear on his face before he clocked onto what Athos was suggesting. 

A sneak act, take out as many as it took to get the musketeers back and quietly leave without catching any of the Spaniard's attention.

"You know it'll still probably get us killed," Porthos added, eyes scanning the camp and counting the number of soldiers surrounding the tents.  
The odd were dramatically against them. 

"That's part of the thrill my friend," Aramis said, clapping Porthos on the shoulder with a soft smile. 

A cry of pain echoed through the trees, drawing their attention back towards where D'artagnan was being punched in the stomach. He doubled over and received another hit.   
Aramis growled in frustration, losing his power to just stay there and went to stand. Both Athos and Porthos grabbed the man’s arms to drag him back down, holding him firmly to the ground.

"You'll pay for this you bastard!" Beaumont shouted as he thrashed against the soldiers' hold on him.  
“Aramis,” Athos warned and the marksman let out the breath he had been holding before slumping back down.   
Antonio simply turned away from D'artagnan to look at Beaumont. He said something out of ear shot for the three musketeers to hear but the glare on both Duval and Beaumont faces' didn't flatter.

Duval began to speak but was stop when Antonio punched the man in the face. 

"Plan of attack? I can't sit here and watch them get beaten up," Aramis said, his hands balled into fists as he watched D'artagnan sink to the ground. 

"We have to wait," Athos said, glancing up at the sky and seeing where the sun currently was. "We go in at night fall, better to stay undetected," he said. 

His heart broke at the sight of D'artagnan, wanting to do something, anything to help him but knowing he couldn't if he wanted to save them all. He knew D'artagnan had more injuries under his clothes just from the way the musketeer didn't fight back but simply fell to the ground on his knees. 

Athos' heart went into his throat when D'artagnan simply slumped forward onto all fours before falling flat on his face. 

"He going to be alright," Porthos mumbled mostly to himself to try and reassure him but his words did no such thing. 

D'artagnan was dragged off into the small tent along with Duval and Beaumont before the guards exited and stood stationed outside. 

"At least we know where they are being held," Aramis said, clocking how many guards stood around or near the tent. 

"It's a start," Athos simply said before backing back down the slope. Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other before following their Captain back down. 

"At sundown we will have our brothers back," Athos said. "But first we need to get some rest," he said, looking at the state his brothers were in from limited sleep over the past few days and the long none stop ride they had done today.   
They both seem reluctant to rest when they knew their brother was hurting, however the look Athos gave them had them nodding in agreement with him. 

They headed back to their horses to 'rest', which in Aramis' terms was load and reload his weapons, Porthos' was to keep glancing up at the sun and the continue to chew his lip as he watched Aramis. For Athos, he paced, just as anxious as his brothers to get this whole thing over with. 

He took his time to coordinate the plan but once he had, he replayed it to his brothers and by then, it was time to make their move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews and kudos, they mean everything to me. The three are sooo close now...


	18. The Rescue

Once the sun had set and the camp was surrounded by darkness, with only the flickering of the fires to light the way, the three musketeers made their move.

Surprise was key, as well as stealth. Athos was in front with Porthos bringing up the rear. They slipped effortless down the banking and into the cover of the trees.

Aramis had promised not to do most of the heavy stuff, allowing Athos and Porthos to handle most of the guards due to his injury. He whistled, catching the attention of the two guards stood by the entrance of the camp. They turned to see him leaning against the tree with a smile on his face.

"Pleasant evening tonight isn't it," he began and before the guards could even lift their pistols at him, both Athos and Porthos had slammed their own against the Spaniards heads. The two dropped to the ground in seconds and the musketeers continued on their way.

They passed the horses, ducking down slightly out of sight of the two Spaniards who were currently feeding the animals.

"That's their tent," Athos whispered as they came to the tree D'artagnan had been thrown up against earlier that day.

Athos quickly leant back, his arm going out to push Aramis and Porthos back as a Spaniard came walking passed, humming to himself as he did rounds. He paused, titling his head in the musketeers' direction.

Athos was about to make a move when Porthos suddenly snuck up behind the guard and quickly threw an arm around the man's neck, squeezing tightly. Aramis moved to cover the Spaniard's mouth and nose to stop him alerting the others.

They dragged the Spaniard out of sight after he had passed out before moving to the tent the prisoners were in.

Sneaking around they took out the two guards stood watching effortlessly, dragging them around the tent and out of sight before moving in.

Porthos stayed as guard, the best out of the three of them when it came to street fighting. He would stay outside and keep look out, taking out any guards that came by without using his pistols or sword to minimise the amount of noise.

Athos pulled the flap of the tent open and entered, Aramis following after him. The second the two walked in they were met with shocked expressions.

"Athos. Aramis," D'artagnan breathed, the look on his face was one of pure disbelief. They both froze for a second, taking in D'artagnan's weak form.

"So you see them too? Thought I was losing it for a second there," Beaumont mumbled before pulling himself to stand quickly, dusting himself off with Duval following close up behind.

"What...How did you... How?" D'artagnan struggled to ask as Aramis and Athos began cutting them all free.

"Followed your trail," Athos simply said as he moved over to cut Duval free.

"But all I left was a feather," D'artagnan simply stated and Aramis glanced over at him with sorrow in his eyes.

"And the Spaniards trail," Athos then explained and D'artagnan caught on instantly to what he was saying. They had followed the trail of dead bodies, dead comrades, heading towards the camp.

Aramis and Athos knelt down on either side of him, both pausing to take in the sight of their beaten and bruised brother.

"It's good to have you back," Aramis said, leaning over and pulling D'artagnan into a gentle hug while trying to stop the tears of relief from running free.

"For a second there I didn't think you'd show up," D'artagnan joked, a small smirk making its way onto his busted lip. His lips maybe curved up into a smile but from how the pain shone brightly in his eyes Athos could tell D'artagnan wasn't entirely joking.

Athos simply placed a hand on the back of D'artagnan's head, pulling his brother close and placing a soft and quick kiss on D'artagnan's forehead.

He pulled back to meet D'artagnan's eyes, wanting to put everything right there in that tent. He wanted to tell D'artagnan how sorry he was that he didn't stop their capture; that the three of them hadn't been coping with a member down. He wanted to tell D'artagnan how guilty he felt about letting his brother down.

However, the Captain side of him screamed to him to get moving. Porthos was on guard but that didn't mean they had enough time to simply chat. They had to keep moving before someone came and drew unwanted attention to them.

"Let's get you up and out of here," Athos finally said and the two moved to help him stand. D'artagnan slung his arm over Athos' shoulder and he helped him walk out of the tent.

"Porthos," D'artagnan breathed, a smile growing on his face once his eyes landed on the larger musketeer.

"D'artagnan," Porthos replied, moving over to D'artagnan's other side and helping him walk.

"I'm so happy to see you three," D'artagnan said and Porthos grinned.

"You have no idea how happy we are to see you," he replied and D'artagnan smiled softly, glancing towards the ground before looking back up. His eyes landed on the tent he had seen Antonio walk in an hour ago before he was dragged back to the prisoner tent.

His heart started to pound against his chest, adrenaline suddenly hitting him and pumping through his blood. He had to keep his word; he was going to be the one to send that man to hell.

Before he could think of a distraction to allow him to slip off towards the tent, they ran head on into eight Spanish soldiers, all having been walking back to their tents after a late supper.

"Gentlemen," Aramis said with a smile, opening his arms out in a friendly manner. "Shall we talk about this?" He questioned before the Spaniards quickly withdrew their weapons. "Apparently not," Aramis said.

Athos quickly put himself between D'artagnan and the Spaniard coming at them from the front. He drew his sword out and met the Spaniard's blade head on, metal hitting metal with a grunt sounding from the Spaniard. Athos twisted to stop the hit from another Spaniard, duelling two with ease.

Porthos turned to the right to protect D'artagnan from one side, drawing his sword and diving straight into the battle against the Spaniards.

Aramis pulled out his dagger and threw it back to Duval while passing his pistol to Beaumont. He then turned just in time to duck the oncoming swing of a sword to his head. He lunged for the Spaniard, completely ignoring his still healing wound and wrapping his arms around the man's waist, throwing them both to the ground with him getting the upper hand.

A pistol fired and a cry of pain echoed out in the night, Duval falling to the ground and grabbing his thigh.

"Duval!" Beaumont shouted before raising Aramis' pistol to take out the Spaniard who had fired.

Lamar was already by Duval's side, grabbing Aramis' fallen dagger and throwing it to take out another enemy. The rest of the musketeers suddenly joined the fight, using their bare fists to bring down the Spaniards.

Attention drawn away from him, D'artagnan did his best to sneak through the battle and then run with all the strength he had left into Antonio's tent.

He could have sworn he heard Athos shout his name but with the buzzing in his ears he didn't register it as a cry of concern.

D'artagnan pulled the flap of the tent open to see Antonio stumbling from his bed, having woken up from the pistol firing and moving to grab his sword that rested against the table.

D'artagnan bet the Captain to it, grabbing the sword and turning to press the blade against Antonio's neck.

"On your knees," D'artagnan growled, the adrenaline pumping through him was the only thing keeping him from falling to his own knees. Antonio swallowed hard, the tip of his blade pressed hard against his throat.

"You don't want to do this D'artagnan," Antonio said, starting to try and manipulate the musketeer.

"On your knees. Now," D'artagnan warned, the anger rising quickly within him and causing his grip on Antonio's sword to tighten.

The Captain obeyed, simply lowering slowly down to his knees and holding his hands up slightly in surrender.

"Please," he began to beg.

* * *

"Surrender or die it doesn't make a difference to me," Athos growled down at the Spaniard, his sword at the man's throat. The Spaniard quickly lifted his hands up in surrender and Athos granted it, knocking the man out before he moved off, stalking through the camp once again.

He got to the tent D'artagnan had ran, or stumbled, into with Porthos and Aramis following close behind him. The rest of the musketeers stayed behind to take out the two remaining Spaniards and watch out for anymore coming their way after hearing the commotion of their fight.

Athos came to a stop when he found D'artagnan stood with Antonio's sword in his hands, pressing the blade up to the Captain's neck. Athos couldn't tell if D'artagnan shook from anger or from the physical pain he was currently in.

He took a breath before slowly walking forwards, Aramis and Porthos staying back.

"D'artagnan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews, they mean the world to me. Thank you for the kudos as well, next chapter will be up soon. Hope you guys enjoyed this one :)


	19. The Darkness

"D'artagnan," Athos began, his hands held up slightly in case D'artagnan fell backwards. The man was swaying dangerously on his feet which only caused the growing concern in Athos to rise even more.

"I can't live another day knowing this man is alive," D'artagnan growled, pressing the tip of Antonio's sword harder against the Captain's neck.

"I know," Athos simply said, slowly moving forward as Porthos and Aramis watched carefully.

One look towards the Spanish Captain and Athos' blood was boiling with anger. The man had the ability to be smirking up at him when he was near seconds away from death. Antonio's eyes then flickered back to D'artagnan, the smirk dropping in a second and fear taking over.

Athos thought it would be selfish of him to just pull out his pistol and burst open the man's skull right that second, even though he desperately wanted to.

"Please, don't do this," Antonio began and D'artagnan's hand dropped slightly, lowering the sword to the man's chest.

Athos took another step but stopped, his eyes flickering down to where D'artagnan was tightening his grip on Antonio's sword.

"D'artagnan," Athos began again. "I know what he did to you is unforgivable and pains you every second. However, he's asking for mercy. Why give him the satisfaction of dying when he could simply rot in prison for the rest of his life," Athos said and seemed to break through to D'artagnan.

Antonio glanced towards Athos before starting to laugh, it began as a soft chuckle before laughing loudly that D'artagnan flinched.

"Come on D'artagnan, do you really expect me to believe that you're going to kill me?" Antonio asked, titling his head in a way as if to study the younger musketeer.

D'artagnan didn't falter, simply staring the Spanish Captain down and daring the man to continue talking.

"You're weak and pathetic, I can't believe the Captain here allows you to be a musketeer," Antonio said, glancing across at Athos who hands were tightly balled up into fists. He was trying to save the man however Antonio was digging his own grave right now. "You're nothing but scum," Antonio added and before D'artagnan could do anything, Athos snapped.

He took two steps forward, acting on pure anger. Aramis and Porthos didn't even move to stop him, both wanting to beat the life out of Antonio too.

Athos grabbed the Captain's shirt before punching the man straight across the jaw, busting his lip in the process. He slammed another fist to break the man's nose before throwing him backwards.

Antonio fell onto his back and Athos grabbed him once again, pulling him up by the shirt and throwing him forward. He landed on all fours before quickly pushing himself up to only have his head snapping to side as Athos slammed his fist once again into the man's face.

He could feel all the anger, all the tension that had built up within him over the past week ease from him the second his fist had connected with Antonio's face.

Everything the Spaniard had put his brother and the rest of the musketeers through caused Athos' blood to boil. He slammed one last punch across Antonio's face, blood splattering from his mouth and a black eye forming.

Athos then relaxed his hand, his knuckles bleeding from the force of his punches before turning to D'artagnan who stood there a little shocked but was slowly regaining himself.

"Grab him," Athos simply said, straightening his clothes. Aramis and Porthos moved in a second, Athos grabbing D'artagnan and pulling him back.

"Get off me!" D'artagnan snapped but Athos easily grabbed him and pulled him back gently. "Get off! He killed them. H-He... He has to pay," D'artagnan said, however he knew himself that he wasn't a murdered, he couldn't do it no matter how much he wanted to.

Antonio was pulled up to his feet by Aramis and Porthos, Antonio trying to shrug off their grip. He tested his jaw and winced in pain; Athos didn't even hold back the smug smirk slowly forming on his lips, the man deserving the pain.

D'artagnan dropped Antonio's sword, slumping back into Athos in defeat.

He knew his brothers were right, the man surrendered it would be against his code as a musketeer and as a human being to kill him there and then.

D'artagnan's head fell forward, all the energy from the adrenaline finally disappearing and the pain coming back. His ribs were throbbing violently, sending waves of immense pain through him. His head pounded hard against his skull as his world began to spin around him. He couldn't focus, the pain bring tears to his eyes before he found his knees give way.

"D'artagnan!" Three voices called out to him.

He took in a shaky breath, breathing in Athos' sent as they both sunk to sit on the ground. His back rested against Athos' chest, his brother's arms wrapped around him to hold him up.

"D'artagnan?" He heard Aramis ask as the medic crouched down in front of him, having left Porthos to handle Antonio. He gently tapped D'artagnan's unbruised cheek to try and get a response.

Porthos watched as he held Antonio back, facing the two as his heart hammered against his chest and hands digging hard into Antonio's arms to hold the Captain back.

"D'artagnan?" Aramis asked again and D'artagnan simply groaned, titling his head away from Aramis' hand.

"It's his ribs," Beaumont then spoke up from where he stood with Duval at the tent entrance, the other musketeer having his arm slung over Beaumont's shoulder to stay stood up. "Majority of them are bruised, he might have some broken though," he said and Athos shared a concerned look with Portnos while Aramis lifted D'artagnan's dirty shirt up to take a look.

They all grimaced at the sight of the bruises that ran along their brother's body, covering most of his skin. Aramis went to run his hand along D'artagnan's ribs, concern growing when he felt the heat radiating from the Gascon's skin before he had even touched him.

"Aramis," D'artagnan breathed, his voice so faint Aramis had to strain to hear it. He leant forward as D'artagnan opened his mouth to speak. He then lifted his hands to grip at Aramis' shirt tightly, breathing shaky as he tried to control his pain.

"D-Don't... Don't let me die, Aramis," D'artagnan breathed, gripping onto the man's shirt and pulling with all his strength. "It'll k-kill...her," he then mumbled, his grip going slack slightly as his ribs caused his body in wince in pain and a cry to escape his lips to which he squeezed his eyes closed.

Thoughts of Constance ran through his head as the world began to slip from his grip, his senses slowly failing him and the darkness trying to drag him down.

"I'm not going to let you die on me D'artagnan, I won't allow it," he heard Aramis reply with such determination in his voice it almost calmed him. His hand slipped from Aramis' shirt and all he knew was darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you agree with my decision about Antonio... :)


	20. The Fix Up

Pain. That's all he felt, no peace, no bright light or a sense of calm. It was all he felt and it was the only thing that existed to him right now. This was hell, it had to be. The amount of pain he was in meant it couldn't be heaven, there was no pain in heaven.

White hot burning. It surrounded him, consumed everything he was and caused him to forget everything except it.

"D'artagnan," a voice echoed from a distance away, floating in the dark and drawing him in. "D'artagnan," the voice called again, fading into the blackness once more and causing him to feel trapped. His heart rate increased and his breathing became laboured. He couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but cry out in pain.

Suddenly laughter surrounded him, the same laughter that had plagued his nightmares over the last couple of days. It rang loud in his ears, so deafening he begged for it to stop. His skin went cold once he saw the man stood in front of him, the Spanish Captain yet again stood with the smile on his face.

Philippes was lying by his feet, blood splattered across his face and eyes open staring blankly back at him.

He couldn't breathe, the laughter in his ears and the sight of his dead brother bringing up memories too raw for him to handle.

"D'artagnan, stop struggling," the voice then broke through, arms gripping him and pinning him down.

"No!" He shouted and thrashed against Porthos' strong hold. "D-Don't... Don't kill him," he begged, his face pinched in pain as his head tossed from side to side. "Kill me instead," he sobbed.

He was laying in the bed in Athos' tent, a long day and nights ride back to the French camp having taken its toll on D'artagnan.

They had wanted to stop, D'artagnan struggling with the ride even when he had been unconscious through it all. However, there was a great risk at being out in the open with the main Spanish camp so close to them and the fact that they had taken the Spanish Captain prisoner put a big target on their backs.

The only way the musketeers could keep safe and help D'artagnan was back at camp, needing the camps medical supplies and its security from the Spanish. So, with sadden hearts they stole some horses from the Spanish and had rode long and hard through the day and the night, not stopping until they finally made it back to the camp.

Antonio had been gagged and bounded before being put with the other prisoners the Musketeers had taken in.

Aramis was now leant over D'artagnan, a cold wet cloth in his hand as he wiped D'artagnan's forehead, trying to lower his rising temperature.

Porthos was holding D'artagnan down to the bed as the young musketeer thrashed, trying to get rid of the nightmare that plagued his sleep. Athos sat at the edge of the bed, trying his best to wipe down D'artagnan's bruises while dodging the punches being swung by his lost brother.

"D'artagnan!" Athos shouted having finally lost his calm, so forceful it snapped the younger musketeer awake.

His eyes shot open and he breathed heavily, hot sweat covering his body as he stared blankly up at a face he couldn't quite put the name to yet.

He blinked again, his vision going in and out of focus. The pain hit again and he squeezed his eyes shut, taking slow breaths through gritted teeth to calm himself.

"Take it easy," Aramis said. "You have a high fever and two broken ribs. Thrashing against Porthos isn't doing you, us or your injuries any good," Aramis said calmly as D'artagnan simply groaned in response before slipping back into the darkness of sleep.

Once D'artagnan had settled down Porthos leant away, removing his hold on him and pushing back to sit in the chair next to the bed. He watched D'artagnan carefully, the younger musketeer's face scrunched up in pain and beads of sweat running down his forehead.

Porthos knew he shouldn't take anything D'artagnan says in this state seriously but he couldn't get D'artagnan begging for it to end out of his head. He had wanted to die, begged for it.

Aramis let out a sigh as he placed the cloth in the bucket of cold water before replacing it on D'artagnan's forehead once again, wiping away the sweat.

"He's not going to be the same after this," Porthos mumbled out and Athos glanced up at him, his actions pausing as his eyes flickered down to study D'artagnan's bruised face.

"He will," Athos said, watching as the pain slowly eased from D'artagnan's face. "He'll just need time," he added before continuing to wipe the cool cloth along D'artagnan's bare skin, cleaning him of the dirt and dried blood. Porthos rubbed a hand over his face roughly, letting out a low groan before dropping it to look across at Aramis.

"What do we need to do?" He asked, leaning forward in his chair. Aramis glanced up at Porthos, seeing the concern in his eyes and how his hands twitched to be useful.

"We wait," Aramis simply said. "There's not much more we can do but try and keep his temperature down and stop him from causing any more damage to his ribs," Aramis said and Porthos looked down at D'artagnan, feeling useless and wanting to stop his brother from hurting.

The tent flap suddenly opened and Duval stepped inside, followed closing by Beaumont. Both musketeers held two plates of food, Beaumont also carrying a water skin under both arms.

"How is he?" Duval asked, limping slightly from the healing leg wound.

"Not good," Aramis honestly replied and the two musketeers glanced down at D'artagnan who laid breathing heavily as he slept. "But he'll make it, we just have to keep the fever down," Aramis informed them both, seeing the concern on their faces.

"Good," Beaumont said before gesturing to the plates in their hands. "We brought you some food," he said before moving forward and placing the plates onto Athos' bed next to D'artagnan's one.

"Thank you," Athos began as the two stepped back. "For everything," he said before standing up.

Porthos took Athos' place by the bed, taking the cloth and wetting it to cool D'artagnan down. Athos moved around the bed to stand in front of Duval and Beaumont, both looking at him with surprise and curious expressions.

"I can't begin to image how hard it was for you both, if it weren't for you I fear D'artagnan may not have made it," Athos said and Duval let a small smile appear on his lips.

"I doubt it," Beaumont spoke up. "D'artagnan's too stubborn to die in the hands of the Spanish," he said and Aramis and Porthos glanced up at the musketeer, both allowing a soft smile to form.

"I guess you're right," Athos said with a small smile of his own on his lips as he recalled how stubborn D'artagnan could be. "But again, thank you very much for your bravery and loyalty," Athos said, bring the conversation back around. "It will not go unnoticed," he said and Duval couldn't help but smile.

"Thank you Captain," they both said before being dismissed.

"Very formal, as always," Aramis teased and Athos didn't even have the energy to glare at him. He sat down in Porthos' vacated chair, tensing and relaxing his still aching and cut hand from punching the hell out of Antonio.

"Let me look at that," Aramis said, standing from kneeling next to D'artagnan before moving around the bed to crouch down in front of Athos.

He didn't argue with the medic, he would have normally insisted he was fine but right now, none of them needed or had the energy for the argument.

Aramis took Athos' hand in his own before deciding it needed cleaning and bandaging up.

"You're next," Athos said as Aramis finished tucking the extra bandaged in and leant back slightly to survey his work.

"I'm fine," Aramis said and this time Athos did have the energy to glare at him.

"Don't try to hide the fact that you winced when you stood up from the bed or how you're trying not to move your shoulder as much," Athos said, giving Aramis a knowing look.

"Just let him look at your injury Aramis, we know you're hurting still," Porthos said as he re-wet the cloth. He had seen how Aramis was moving a little slowly as if to not aggravate his injury even more.

Aramis sighed before nodding and Athos got to work as Porthos tried to keep D'artagnan's temperature down.

They were all going to be alright, Porthos thought to himself, they had to be.


	21. The Peace

D'artagnan slept for two days, his body needing the rest to be able to heal. He'd gone through a great ordeal and this was his body's way of repairing itself. His fever had slowly lowered to the relief of his brothers. His bruises were beginning to fade back slightly, not as raw as they once were.

Beaumont and Duval brought food for them when they forgot to eat since the three musketeers wouldn't leave D'artagnan's side.

Aramis sat on the bed next to D'artagnan with his back against the headrest, his eyes slowly dropping with his head falling to his chest. The medic hadn't slept in two days, staying awake to focus on keeping D'artagnan's fever down. However, now that D'artagnan seemed to be through the worst of it Aramis finally allowed himself some rest, Athos also ordering him to.

Porthos sat on the chair situated between the two, his gaze flickering from one to the other.

He couldn't believe that they had finally gotten D'artagnan back, the relief from having their small, dysfunctional family back together washing over him like a gentle wave.

He was thankful D'artagnan was back with them, not knowing how long they could have kept following the trail. He had feared that they would have found D'artagnan in an even worse condition than he was in, possibly even dead.

He swallowed hard at the thought, hating that it had come so close to that and not knowing what he would have done if it had actually ended that way.

Athos would have spiralled, hitting the bottle harder than he ever had and shutting himself off from the other two. Aramis would have struggled, his faith in God slipping while also moving through life with a permanent black cloud hung over him.

Porthos' friendship with his brothers would have slipped after such a loss.

Porthos found himself reaching out to take D'artagnan's hand in his, needing the warmth of his brother to reassure him that D'artagnan was actually there and that he was alive.

Athos sat at the table opposite Thomas who was replaying everything that had happened since they had been gone, finally having the time to talk after two long and stressful days.

"Now that we have the Spanish Captain, it's not long before their troops start making mistakes," Thomas said, Athos listening to his every word. "The Spanish General is worrying but managed to keep calm, holding up on their grip over this part of the land," Thomas said, pointing the place out on the map in the middle of them on the table.

Athos hummed, a hand going to run through his messy hair.

"The good news is that we've managed to get three of the Spanish supply routes out from the prisoners, meaning that we can ambush their supplies and weaken their soldiers on the frontline," Thomas said, drawing on the map to show the routes. "No food and no gunpowder makes it much easier for us to take them and push them back," he said before leaning back, finishing informing Athos of what he had missed.

"Good work Thomas," Athos said, his eyes following one of the supply routes. "I want to send musketeers out as soon as possible to take out this supply group," Athos then said, pointing at the route he was talking about. Thomas nodded, leaning forward slightly. "The sooner we take out their supplies the better," the Captain said and Thomas nodded before standing, Athos following him up.

They both stepped around the table to shake hands before Thomas disappeared out of the tent.

Athos let out a heavy sigh, his uninjured hand running through his long, slightly greasy hair once more before turning to face Porthos, who was watching him carefully.

"You think we can do this? Win the war?" He asked as Athos came to sit down on the bed on the other side of D'artagnan.

"There's a possibility," Athos mumbled before rolling to lay on his back, closing his eyes and hands coming to cover his face. His body was aching and he had gotten a limited amount of sleep over the past few days. He needed to rest, however he knew there was work to be done.

"A strong possibility?" Porthos asked and Athos let his arms drop to the bed with a soft thud. He then swung his legs back over to rest his feet in the ground, sitting up to look at Porthos.

"It feels that way," he replied before standing and moving back over to the table.

"You should rest," Porthos said, straightening up in his chair and letting go of D'artagnan's hand.

"So should you," Athos simply replied before sitting down at the table and grabbing some paper.  
Porthos shook his head with a soft smile before settling back down in the chair, propping his feet up on Aramis' bed.

Athos took a breath before he began writing, the words seeming to slip easily onto the page. He didn't have to think it through, not like before when he had struggled to write to Constance.

After finishing the letter, Athos felt a true sense of relief wash over him, thankful that they had the musketeers back finally. Sealing the letter to Constance up, he then moved on to writing another letter, this one addressed to Treville.

He informed Treville of the successful rescue mission and then began to tell him of what Thomas had informed him about.

He finally finished, sealing the paper up and deciding to write the letters to the families of the once missing, now rescued musketeers tomorrow morning before sending them all off at the same time... Along with the letter to Philippes' family.

Athos stood and turned to see Porthos was now fast asleep along with Aramis and D'artagnan. The sight was something of amusement, Porthos with his head back and mouth open to snore softly and Aramis with his head on his chest from where he sat asleep.

Athos moved over to them, picking up two blankets from his bed before throwing one over each of them. He then glanced towards D'artagnan, seeing the younger musketeer was still slightly pale but seemed to be in a dreamless sleep.

He moved to check D'artagnan's temperature, which was thankfully not too high. This allowed Athos the peace of mind to move over to the tent entrance and look out to the camp.

Everything seemed calm, most of his men asleep now while guards stood at the edge of camp and others walked through, making sure everything was in order. Athos nodded to two of the guards that walked past, both of them nodding back to their Captain.

He then moved back into the tent, his bed calling for him. Checking D'artagnan's temperature one last time he allowed himself some rest, flopping down onto his own bed with a sigh.

He laid on his back for a while, listening to the soft snores of Porthos and also D'artagnan's steady breathing. He then turned to face D'artagnan, watching the younger musketeer until his body finally gave up on him, his eyelids dropping and sleep taking him at last.

* * *

Treville stood opposite the Queen's desk, back straight and shoulders pulled back as he awaited her majesty's verdict.

"And you want me to sign this?" The Queen asked, glancing up from the paper in front of her and locking eyes with Treville.

"It would be the best solution to the war at this moment in time," Treville said and the Queen narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him with great curiosity.

She then sighed, leaning back in her chair ever so slightly as if to try and remove the burn hanging over her.

"And if I don't?" She then asked, looking back down at the paper to read it for the fourth time.

"The war will evidently go on further and more men will die on both sides. Pairs will grow hungrier, even after Constance's help to minimise it," Treville said, trying to persuade the Queen into signing the peace treaty in front of her.

"And you expect the Spanish King to agree to this?" The Queen then asked and Treville took a steadying breath.

"He will," Treville said firmly to not cast any doubt in the Queen's head.

She seemed to struggle, contemplating the positives against the negatives. Treville watched with his heart in his throat, if she signed then they would be half way to finishing the war... For now that was until something else came up and the two counties were at each other's throats once again.

The queen took a breath before picking up her quill and dipping it into the ink. Treville had to use every inch of his will power to maintain his calm and collected front, even though inside he was bursting with relief.

Half way there, he thought as the Queen scratched her signature across the bottom of the paper before handing it back to him. He only had to get the Spanish to agree to it now.

"See that this is taken care off immediately, I want those soldiers back safe," the Queen said and Treville bowed his head.

"Of course your majesty," he replied before turning and walking towards the door.

"Treville," the Queen called after him and he paused, turning back to look at her. "What of D'artagnan?"

"Nothing yet, but I promise to tell you if anything changes," Treville said and the Queen nodded, dismissing him. He bowed before walking out of the room with a half light and half heavy heart.

Part of him was glad the war was hopefully going to be finished yet the other half was aching for news of D'artagnan and the other musketeers.

He had to know if they were safe; he needed them to be safe. Constance was wearing herself out, even when Elodie and Sylvie were trying their hardest to keep her steady.

No news was good news, Treville told himself yet he couldn't help thinking of the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments, hope you liked this chapter :)


	22. The Blame

D'artagnan found himself floating, feeling as if his body was laying on a bed of air. The pain had stopped and the heat, the fire, had died down, allowing him some dreamless sleep.

However, that had only lasted for a short while, nightmares slowly crawling their way back into his mind and plaguing his dreams.

Flashing memories of Philippes, wide eyed and mouth open with blood spattered across the ground where he lay, staring back at D'artagnan and not moving an inch.

The image caused his breath to hitch and his eyes to snap open, confused when they settled on the canvas ceiling of a tent and not the morning sky.

Where was he?

He felt stiff with his muscle aching, yet it wasn't because he had been walking all day but because he hadn't moved at all.

A stream of light was streaking through the gap in the tent's entrance to softly lighten up his surroundings.

He guessed it was coming on early morning, soft snores sounding from his right indicated people were still asleep.

He then realised he was laying in a bed, plump pillows behind his head and a warm blanket draped over him. His heart fluttered slightly, his foggy mind trying to make sense of the situation.

"Morning," a voice said from his left, causing D'artagnan to flinch.

He let a soft groan escape his lips, briefly closing his eyes before slowly tilting his head to the side. It was still throbbing, however the pain was numb like a distant sort of pain not yet catching up with him.

He blinked as his eyes readjusted to the light again, finding Athos sat upright in his bed, a map splayed out on the bed sheets in front of him with a small frown on his face as he studied them.

"Mor-" he tried to say but his voice cracked, his throat dying for a drink of water. It felt like knives were running all down his throat, scratching at him as he tried to swallow.

"Here," Athos said, turning to stand and grabbing his cup from the bedside table next to him. He leaned over D'artagnan, slowly lifting the younger musketeer's head up to press the brim of the cup against his lips.

He drank greedily, the water clenching a thirst that D'artagnan didn't have time to register before.

"Take it easy," Athos warned before removing to cup and placing it on the floor next to D'artagnan's bed.

He lowered D'artagnan's head back down onto the pillows before turning to sit on the edge of the Gascon's bed.

"How are you feeling?" He asked and D'artagnan blinked at the Captain, trying to register how he actual felt.

"Disorientated," he mumbled, lifting his head up slightly to view his surroundings, still wondering whether this was a dream or reality.

Athos must have sensed D'artagnan's discomfort.

"You're back in the French camp, in our tent. You're safe here, Porthos and Aramis are asleep next to you," Athos informed him and D'artagnan looked to his right to see that, indeed, Porthos and Aramis were fast asleep.

"What about... What about the others? And Antonio, what happened to him?" D'artagnan then asked, his voice cracking and his mind slipping to see Duval crumble to the ground after getting hit back in the Spanish camp.

"Antonio is with the rest of the prisoners and the musketeers are all here, getting rest," Athos said and D'artagnan nodded before he thought of Athos' words.

"Not all," D'artagnan replied, the memories of what happened to his brother flashing before his eyes.

Suddenly, his heart picked up as he remembered him, Philippes was still lying their on the ground, eyes open and mouth agape.

"Philippes, I need to... I need to go," D'artagnan then said, struggling to sit up and causing a wince of pain to corse through his body.

"Easy," Athos warned, placing a hand on D'artagnan's shoulder and pressing the musketeer back down to the pillows that propped him up slightly to ease the pressure on his ribs. "We found him and buried him," Athos said and D'artagnan's breath caught in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as he relived the terrible moment, the death hitting him like a sword cutting across his chest.

He squeezed his eyes shut in hopes to rid his mind of the memory, however it only seemed to drag him further into the depth of fear.

"D'artagnan?" Athos asked, his voice bringing D'artagnan back to reality as the Captain's hand squeezed his shoulder, grounding him. "I'm sorry," Athos then said and D'artagnan turned his head to frown at him.

"It's not your fault," he mumbled and Athos dropped his hand from his brother's shoulders, looking away and being unable to look the younger musketeer in the eyes.

"If we hadn't have found you all, I don't know what would have become of us..." Athos wondered off, glancing up at Porthos before his eyes settled on Aramis. The medic had somehow managed to slump while he slept to lay on his side, arms dangling over the left side of the bed along with his head. Athos would always wondered how the man could sleep in such awkward positions, even when injured.

A gentle squeeze of his hand brought Athos' attention back to D'artagnan who was watching him.

"Thank you," he said, the truest look of gratitude shining from his eyes. Athos simply took a breath, allowing the air to fill his lungs and steady his heart. "I don't know what would have happened to us if you hadn't of come when you did," D'artagnan said before glancing up at the tent ceiling.

"For a second you doubted us, thought we wouldn't make it to you," Athos said and D'artagnan took a breath. "It was in your eyes," he added, knowing D'artagnan was wondering how he knew.

"It was awful Athos..." D'artagnan began. "Antonio didn't care for those French soldiers, showed them no mercy... A-And Philippes. It's my fault he died and I could have stopped it; Antonio wanted me not him," D'artagnan said before quickly blinking back the tears. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly to calm himself.

"He died for his country, died protecting the crown," Athos reminded him and D'artagnan looked down.

"No Athos... He just died," D'artagnan mumbled. "I understand now how hard it is to be Captain, how hard it is to watch over your men and then to have one of them die..." D'artagnan wondered off and his words made Athos pause, looking at his struggling brother with a blank expression but with a million thoughts running through his head.

"War changes people, D'artagnan," Athos began, watching the Gascon carefully. "Sometimes... there are things that happen in war that we cannot unsee, things that happen which are out of our control to stop or change. I know you did everything you could have done to save those men and stop any suffering from happening to them. However, you can not undo what has happened... Philippes' death is not on your hands and neither are those soldiers. Being Captain does mean taking responsibility for things that happen whether it be in the streets of Paris or out in the battle field, but... not this," Athos warned, staring down at D'artagnan to drill it into him that he shouldn't blame himself. "You need to remember that. _I_ need you to remember that, since I will not allow you to beat yourself up over something that wasn't your fault... something that you couldn't have possibly predicted or stopped," he said and D'artagnan finally titled his head to look at Athos, seeing the pain that shone behind his eyes.

D'artagnan simply took a shaky breath in, allowing time for Athos' words to sink in and to be processed.

"They put so much faith in me," D'artagnan stated, wanting to get everything off his chest but feeling it was just too raw to talk openly about it just yet.

"Part of being a Captain," Athos simply said. He squeezed D'artagnan's hand before standing, moving over to his bed and scooping up the maps.

"I sent a letter out to Treville this morning as well as to Constance and each family of the musketeers who were taken," Athos informed D'artagnan to change the conversation as he moved over to the table, spreading the maps out on top of a map of Spain. "She'll get it by sundown," he then added and D'artagnan let a small smile appear on his lips.

With the thought of Constance on his mind, he allowed himself some more rest.

* * *

The next time D'artagnan woke he was met with the eyes of Beaumont staring down at him.

His heart fluttered and his mind pulled him back to the Spanish camp, laying on the cold hard ground after a restless night sleep. The thought consumed him and he couldn't pull himself out of it.

"D'artagnan, you're safe. You're in the French camp," Aramis said, Beaumont's face suddenly being replaced by Aramis who looked down at him with concern in his eyes.

He had seen the fear that had taken over D'artagnan's features and the way his brother had gone suddenly stiff.

D'artagnan took a steadying breath before nodding, allowing his heart time to settle back down.

"How you feeling?" Beaumont asked from where he sat in the chair next to his bed.

"Better... but still aching," D'artagnan added and Aramis smiled down at him.

"Well then, let's get you sat up. It'll help with easing the pressure on your ribs," the medic said and D'artagnan simply nodded before Beaumont and Aramis slowly lifted him up to sit, arms holding him up to stop him from falling back.

He let out the breath he had been holding once he was sat up straight and not swaying from the dizziness.

He felt less trapped now that he was sat and could see his surroundings.

Athos and Porthos where at the table, food on the plates in front of them while discussing the successful ambush on the Spanish supply route. They had looked over once D'artagnan was sat up straight, the conversation falling short as they watched.

"Ready to stand?" Aramis asked, his palm pressed against D'artagnan's back to stop him from falling backwards to the bed.

D'artagnan nodded in determination, gritting his teeth and preparing for the battle he was about to face.

He slowly swung his legs over the bed with a lot of effort, trying to control his breathing to not aggravate his ribs even more.

Beaumont moved around to Aramis' side of the bed to take D'artagnan's hand, Aramis holding the Gascon's arm with one hand while his other stayed on D'artagnan's back.

"On three," Aramis said before counting up. D'artagnan took a deep breath before pushing himself up to stand, hand gripping Beaumont's hand tightly as he tried to squeeze the pain away.

Once stood he let himself sway slightly, knowing Aramis and Beaumont would catch him if he fell too far.

After his world stopped spinning, he began to walk towards the table, eyeing up the food on Porthos' plate.

With every step his ribs protested madly against him, aching and throbbing for the movement to stop. When he finally got to the table he slowly, with the help of his two brothers, lowered himself down to sit opposite Porthos and next to Athos. Aramis sat down to his left while Beaumont moved to sit on the other side of the table.

Without even thinking D'artagnan leaned over, ignoring the discomfort it caused his ribs and grabbed the fresh meat and bread from Porthos' plate.

"Hey," Porthos warned with a glare aimed towards the younger musketeer but had no actual hatred behind it.

"I'm injured," he simply stated through a mouthful of much needed food.

"It still doesn't give you the right to steal a man's food," Porthos warned but didn't make a move to steal the food back. D'artagnan grinned at the man sat across from him before taking another bite of the bread, his stomach thankful it was finally getting a decent meal.

"Not too much," Aramis warned. "You've been starved of food, your body won't be able to cope with the sudden amount," he said in his medical voice, watching D'artagnan carefully.

Athos picked his cup up and handed it to D'artagnan without even looking up from the supply sheet he was studying in front of him. D'artagnan took it with a thanks before downing the water back to wash away the mouthful of bread and meat.

"I feel fighting fit already," D'artagnan then said and Beaumont rolled his eyes.

"You can't even stand without nearly passing out," he said and D'artagnan gave him a small smirk before looking down at the supply sheet Athos was going over.

The tent flap interrupted them and Thomas walked in. He nodded a greeting to them before directing his gaze to Athos.

"Captain, the General would like to see you. He says it's important," Thomas said and Athos nodded before rising. "Oh and this came for you," he added, moving forward and holding out a letter. Athos took it and noticed Treville's seal in a heartbeat.

He ripped it open and scanned the content, a small smile formed on his lips before he dropped the letter to the table.

"We might be heading home sooner than you think gentlemen," he said and they all frowned, Aramis leaning forward to pick up the letter.

Athos turned to follow Thomas out of the tent, leaving his brothers to read the letter of how Treville and the Queen were currently trying to organise a peace treaty with Spain.

As he walked, his mind raced with reasons why the General would want to see him with such importance. When he got to the General's tent he found out the worse was what he got, however it was a slightly different version to what he was thinking off.

A telling off was something Athos did definitely not appreciate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and reviews, next chapter up soon :)


	23. Here Comes The General

Constance let out a heavy sigh as two cadets came running passed her, one coming around the corner a little too fast and nearly running into her. She was too tired to shout at them for doing so, simply letting it slide.

She walked up the stairs out of the living quarters, grabbing one of the cadets abandoned training gear from off the floor with a huff of annoyance before walking into the courtyard.

She found Sylvie sat by herself at the table at the bottom of the stairs, back to the courtyard and book in hand yet she was staring up at the balcony above her.

"Thinking of him?" Constance asked as she came up behind Sylvie, the woman dragging her eyes away from the Captain's office and towards her friend.

"Missing him," she simply said as Constance sat down, dumping the training gear onto the table. Sylvie turned down the corner of the page before closing her book, placing it down on the table to give Constance her full attention. "You haven't slept," Sylvie more stated than asked.

"Have you? Has anybody?" Constance questioned and Sylvie had to admit that Constance had a point. There seemed to be a dark cloud hanging permanently over the garrison, everyone moving with a little less life in them.

"They'll find him," Sylvie said, her hand going to take Constance's that rested on the table top.

Just as Constance was about to reply, wanting to ask about Sylvie's book to change the conversation, a man came galloping into the garrison dressed in a musketeer uniform.

He glanced around, his eyes landing and settling on Constance.

"Letter for you Madame D'artagnan," he said, jumping down from his horse and walking over.

Constance stood and took the letter, thanking the man who nodded before climbing back on his horse to deliver the rest of the letters he was carrying.

Sylvie slowly pulled herself up to stand, moving over to Constance's side as she saw the woman freeze.

"Athos," Constance said, recognising the writing and the seal. "I can't do it," Constance then said, glancing up at Sylvie who simply smiled at her softly.

"You can, I'm here for you," she said and Constance took a breath before ripping the seal and opening the letter.

Tears formed in Constance's eyes the second she read the first line and Sylvie suddenly thought of the worse until a huge smile formed on Constance's lips.

"They found them, they found him. He's alive," Constance rushed to say and Sylvie let out the breath she had been holding, eyes briefly closing in relief.

"Thank God," Sylvie said before she was suddenly pulled into a hug by her friend.

Constance was filled with a sense of over joy, barely able to keep her relief and happiness under control.

He was alive. D'artagnan, her husband, was alive.

"Told you they'd find him," Sylvie smirked and Constance couldn't help it but let a laugh escape her lips.

"It doesn't say when they'll be back though," Constance said with a small frown, pulling back from Sylvie and glancing at the letter.

"The war isn't over yet though Constance," she said, saying the hard truth. "Plus, D'artagnan or one of the other's may be too injured to travel, I'm sure they'll be back soon," she said with a smile and Constance let out a breath, closing her eyes and trying to control her racing heart.

"What's with all the hugging?" Elodie asked as she walked down the steps from the balcony, a small smile on her lips. She glanced at the letter in Constance's hand and paused. However, she had no time to think of the worst as Constance smiled happily at her.

"They found him," Elodie more stated than asked, glancing towards Sylvie who nodded. Elodie let out a sigh of relief before a smile appeared on her lips.

"I think we all need a drink," she said and both Constance and Sylvie hummed in agreement.

* * *

Athos entered the tent and bowed his head slightly in respect to the General, who sat at his table surveying the papers that laid in front of him.

"General, you wished to speak with me," Athos said and the General waved him in, Thomas turning and leaving them to talk business.

"The Spanish are retaliating," the General began, looking up from the papers to lock eyes with Athos. The Captain didn't speak, simply waiting for the General to continue with what he needed to say. "After your little rescue mission which evidently led to the capturing of the Spanish Captain, they haven't taken it so lightly. Neither have they taken the successful ambush on their supply party lightly," the General said and Athos frowned slightly.

"You're angry that my men and I are doing our jobs?" Athos questioned and got a glare from the General in return.

"You're mission was to follow the trail not go wondering off on a rescue mission, breach the Spanish camp and kidnap their Captain," he replied with a stern expression which simply didn't faze Athos, he had gotten better ones from D'artagnan.

"I was doing what I thought, what I knew, was right. I was saving my men," Athos replied, anger rising to the surface but he kept his face a neutral mask, conveying to the General that this conversation was wasting his time... Which in fact it was.

"Against orders," the General corrected.

"Coming back here and organising a proper rescue mission would have ended in those musketeers deaths," Athos explained, his voice steady and calm as always but carrying a hint of danger within it.

"I hear it already got one of them killed," the General said and Athos mentally slapped himself to stop him retaliating with punching the man in the face.

He knew the General was a hard man but never thought he would be that cold. Maybe Porthos was right at the beginning of the war; there was something different with the way the General was acting and it was very suspicious.

"Philippes' death hasn't got anything to do with my two musketeers and I," Athos replied, his voice slowly getting lower and harsher as the General's words got more annoying and infuriating.

"Of course, nothing ever is your fault," he replied and Athos took a breath. "Their General has sent more soldiers out across France and they are closing in on our men here," he suddenly said to change the conversation, moving some of the papers on his desk to reveal a map of the land he was talking about.

Athos stepped in closer to look at the map, the General indicating the place the Spanish soldiers were heading into with his finger.

"I will not stand to lose that piece of land to the Spanish," the General said as he sensed Athos' uneasiness about the whole thing.

"My men there are more than capable of handling the situation," Athos said, having faith in his men. "And besides, I have no doubt that you already know that there are talks occurring between Spain and France for the hopes of a peace treaty being reached?" Athos said and the General looked at him with a slight frown.

"You talk as if I'm not the General Athos, have you forgotten that," he said, using Athos' name instead of the man's title to further state his power over the musketeer.

"I have not forgotten Sir, but you talk as if my men aren't good enough and as if the war will go on," he said with more force than he had meant to. It most have gotten on the Generals nerves the way Athos was speaking to him, as the man straightened up and set a harsh glare at him.

"I am the General here, if you talk to me like that again I will have you court-marshalled," he said and Athos straighten up, taking a silent breath to calm his anger that was boiling up towards the man. "Do I make myself clear?" He then asked and Athos gave a blunt nod, words failing him in his angered state. "Good," he said and Athos took a breath.

"What is your plan Sir?" Athos then questioned to move the conversation along.

"We shall wait until further news from Treville," he said and Athos nodded. "If a peace treaty is not reached then… I guess you know what I will be wanting of men," he continued.

 _Back to the front_ , Athos thought; he couldn't go back to the front, not with D'artagnan still needing their help.

"Of course," Athos replied, the general looking him up and down.

"You are dismissed," the General then said as he glanced down at his papers. Athos nodded, turning sharply on his heels and stalking out of the tent.

He walked through the camp with fury, his hands balled up into fists from the General's stupidity and arrogance.

How dare he question the ability of the musketeers, how dare he blame Philippes' death on him and how dare he say that they shouldn't have rescued D'artagnan and the others.

Athos violently threw open the flap to his tent minutes later to see Beaumont had left, leaving his three brothers sat at the table laughing together about something Aramis had just said. He paused, allowing the moment to ease some of his anger, just thankful to have all his brothers back together before everything suddenly snapped back into reality.

They all looked up at Athos' heavy footsteps on the hard ground, frowns forming on their faces once they saw Athos' harsh expression. He looked like he could kill someone twice over.

"What did the General want?" Porthos asked lightly as Athos walked over to the wine at the end of the table. He pulled the cork out before drinking from the bottle, taking three large gulps before placing the bottle back down and restraining his need to drink more.

He let out a heavy sigh, his grip on the wine bottle relaxing slightly.

"His stupidity and arrogance knows no bounds," Athos simply told them all before sadly placing the cork back in the wine bottle; he had to keep a clear mind.

"That bad?" Aramis asked. The Captain ran a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the knots.

"The General threatened to have me court-marshalled," Athos said and they all fell silent, letting Athos' words sink in.

"Wait, what?" Porthos finally asked, anger suddenly rising within him. Athos raised a hand to calm the larger man, simply shaking his head as he sat down next to him.

"I spoke ill to him after he criticised our rescue mission," Athos said, closing his eyes and resting his suddenly throbbing head in one hand.

"You have to be kidding right," D'artagnan said and Athos lifted his head up to look at his injured brother with a serious expression.

"When do I joke?" Athos asked him and Aramis hummed.

"Fair point," the medic said with a smirk before shaking his head. "The General's stupidity and arrogance knows no bounds," he simply said, repeating Athos' earlier words.

"Soon the war will be over and we can all go home," Porthos said and Athos simply hummed, knowing that they had a lot more difficult challenges ahead of them before they could even step foot back into Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and reviews, next chapter will be up soon. 
> 
> PS I had to throw in a Hamilton reference with the title of this chapter, I couldn't help myself :D


	24. The War is Over

Treville came trotting into the garrison on his horse, pulling it to a stop at the entrance. He swung his leg over to jump down, one of the stable boys coming over to take the horse's reins from him.

"Captain," the stable boy, Benjamin, greeted him and Treville nodded at the boy.

He walked further into the garrison to find three of the cadets sparring, two on one. They danced around each other wearing their blue training uniform, ducking and weaving swords and punches while also working on attacks at each other.

Treville smiled broadly at them before noticing Brujon sat on the table's top, eyes fixed on the sparring session and watching carefully. He seemed to be watching for slip ups, pointing them out each time and giving the cadets ways they could improve.

Treville walked over to him and Brujon glanced across before quickly standing up when he noticed who it was.

"Cap-Minister Treville," he greeted, bowing his head slightly out of respect.

"Brujon," he replied back before glancing around. "Do you know where Madame D'artagnan is?" He asked and Brujon nodded.

"Up in the Captain's office with Sylvie and Elodie," he said and Treville thanked him before making his way up to his old office.

He knocked on the door for Constance to reply with enter. He stepped in to find Sylvie sat in Athos' chair behind his desk, leaning back and looking relaxed while Constance stood pacing on the other side. Elodie sat in the chair opposite Sylvie, a bottle of wine and three cups on the table between them.

"Constance, Sylvie, Elodie," he greeted them all individually and Sylvie sat up a little straighter while Constance stopped pacing. "Something wrong?" Treville asked and Sylvie chuckled.

"No, we're fine. Constance here is trying to come up with the perfect revenge plan on Marcheaux," Sylvie informed him, causing him to give Constance a look.

"Nothing too dramatic," he warned and the woman gave Treville an innocent look.

"I would never," she replied before giving him a smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" Constance finally asked.

"I'm assuming you got a letter from Athos," he began and Constance nodded.

"It came earlier today," Constance informed him.

"Well, it may possibly be that the musketeers will be coming back sooner than you think," he said and all three of the women frowned slightly, Sylvie leaning forward in Athos' chair. "Peace treaty negotiations have been held over the past few days with the Spanish King," he said and saw Constance watching with her narrowed eyes. "And it looks like the musketeers are coming back, the Spanish King has sign the treaty after some persuading words early today," he said and they all smiled brightly.

"When will they return?" Elodie asked and Treville shifted from one foot to the other.

"It's hard to confirm a date but it will be within a few weeks, it'll take time to retreat from the front line," Treville told them and he saw a slight deflated look appear on all their faces, Sylvie leaning back into Athos' chair.

"Thank you for informing us Treville," Constance said, moving over to him. He gave her a smile which she gladly returned.

* * *

Aramis was sat on the bed with D'artagnan slowly lowering himself down to rest against the pillows pushed up on the backrest, groaning slightly from the pain.

"Just stay upright and try to keep moving. But not too far, I don't want you pushing yourself too hard," Aramis warned and D'artagnan turned his head to give the man a look.

"I'm fine," the young Gascon said, seeing the worried frown Aramis' eyebrows were pulled in.

"Of course you are, if you simply listen and follow my medical advice," Aramis told him and D'artagnan smirked back.

"Last time I check, you weren't actually a doctor," he replied and Aramis leant back slightly, seeing the old D'artagnan slowly coming back.

"He still has more skills than you in this situation," Athos commented from by the table where he had been hunched over it all afternoon.

"Still-" D'artagnan began but Porthos interrupted him.

"You should listen to your Captain," he said, glancing up from cleaning his pistol on his bed and giving D'artagnan a toothy grin. The younger member of their group simply rolled his eyes, yet they all knew he would listen to Aramis' words.

He wasn't strong enough yet to stand without feeling out of breath, let alone go walking through camp or even fighting alongside his brothers.

"So I'm to stay here in this tent, particularly stuck to the bed..." D'artagnan wondered off, glancing between his three brothers.

Porthos and Athos looked across at Aramis who smirked, aiming said smirk at D'artagnan.

"We can always tie you to the bed to make sure you don't try and escape," Aramis said and realised the second the words had slipped from his mouth they had been the wrong ones.

D'artagnan suddenly went awfully stiff, flashing memories of his time in the Spaniard's grip running through his mind.

The rope, the burning sensation against his skin as he swung for hours from the tree. He snapped out of it as quick as he had slipped into it, hoping his brothers hadn't noticed. However, they knew him too well, knew what every twitch of his muscles meant.

"I'd rather you didn't," D'artagnan said, trying to keep the mood light and not slip into the darkness that came along whenever his time in the Spanish hold was brought up.

"Well then, listen to my advice," Aramis said, knowing that D'artagnan would want to move past his sudden flashback.

The tent flap opened, breaking the silence that had fallen quickly over them, and Beaumont suddenly came rushing in.

"Captain," he began a little breathless. Athos straightened, going on full alert and expecting the worse. "They need you in the prisoners tent, Antonio has tried to escape," Beaumont said and all four musketeers straightened up.

"Have you caught him?" Athos asked, grabbing his sword belt and pulling it on as he saw D'artagnan tense in the corner of his eye.

"Yes, but not without a causality on our side," Beaumont said with a sorrowing look.

"How bad?" Aramis asked as Athos secured his sword.

"He'll survive," Beaumont said. "Antonio grabbed the guard's sword and stab him in the thigh," Beaumont informed them as D'artagnan started to try and climb out of bed.

"Don't," Athos warned, giving D'artagnan a look. "Watch him," he then said to Porthos and Aramis before following after Beaumont.

D'artagnan let out a long breath, glancing at Aramis and seeing the musketeer was itching to know more.

A few moments passed and Porthos locked eyes with Aramis who could see the larger man was practically itching to go after his friend. Aramis simply gestured his head towards the tent flap and with that Porthos went off after Athos.

Aramis turned back to checking over D'artagnan, hands pausing slightly as he worried about his two brothers.

The tent flap opened a couple of minutes later and they both turned, expecting it to be Athos and Porthos to see it was Duval instead.

"Letter for you all," he said, still limping slightly but looking a lot better. He handed it to Aramis before turning to leave.

"It's from Treville," Aramis told D'artagnan before tearing the seal open and reading the content aloud. "As you all know, I've been working with the Queen to organise a peace treaty between Spain and France," Porthos began

"Has he got it sign yet?" D'artagnan questioned.

"Let me finish," Aramis said softly with a smirk from how eager the boy was and D'artagnan fell silent.

"After careful arrangement and some... Persuading words to the Spanish King, the peace treaty was sign early today," Aramis said, his breath catching in his throat as he glanced at the next sentence. A huge smile formed on his lips and he looked up at his brother.

"The wars over, we're going home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, I've just got back into writing after so long away, life got in the way a little. I am terribly sorry for the very long wait and I promise the next chapter won't take as long to get up on here. Please be nice, I am really sorry it took me so long and I don't know if you guys are still even interested in this story. Anyway, if you are, please review :)


	25. The Relief

Athos pushed Beaumont aside to stop Antonio grabbing the younger musketeer.

The rest of the prisoners in the tent watch with wide eyes as the Spanish Captain turned on Athos and tackled him to the ground.

They both landed harsh on the dry ground, Antonio managing to land a punch across Athos' face.

Athos grimaced when he felt and heard the crack of his nose breaking, swearing mentally at himself to try cope with the pain.

He heard Porthos shout his name from the other end of the tent but didn't register the concern in the man's voice since Antonio slammed another painful fist across his face.

He grabbed Antonio's upper arms to try and limit the amount of punches being swung at his face.

Porthos was there a second later, grabbing Antonio and throwing him backwards. He slammed a kick into the man's side as he tried to climb onto all fours, causing him to fall back down to the ground.

Lamar pulled his pistol out and aimed it straight at the Spaniard.

"One more move and I won't hesitate in shooting you," Lamar said, clicking his pistol which caused Antonio to simply raise his hands in surrendered, rolling into his back.

"You alright?" Porthos asked as he knelt down next to Athos who still laid on his back, a little breathless.

He was getting too old and tired for this.

Athos nodded, a hand going to wipe his bleeding nose which only caused a wave of pain to wash over him.

"That looks broken," Beaumont said from the right as Athos pulled himself up to sit, glancing at a smirking Antonio. "I can fix it if you want," Beaumont then said and Athos glanced wearily at him.

"You've done it before?" Athos asked and Beaumont shrugged.

"A few times," he simply said.

"You sure?" Porthos then asked, looking a little concerned.

"Yeah, it's easy," Beaumont said carefree and Athos could only sigh, allowing Beaumont to fix him up.

He winced from the pain before grabbing a clean handkerchief from his pocket, holding it against his nose to stop the bleeding.

"You're not going to get away with this, I won't tell you scum anything," Antonio said before Athos pulled himself up to stand, Porthos hovering slightly in concern.

"I wasn't expecting you to," Athos said and Antonio paused slightly, his anger dropping and smirk flattening.

"Then what are you going to do with me?" He questioned, a slight frown forming on his face. Athos glanced at Porthos who shrugged before glancing across at Antonio.

"I could just let Lamar here kill you," Athos said and Lamar shifted slightly, causing Antonio to lean back on his heels where had pulled himself up to kneel.

"I'd happily do it," Lamar said, finger twitching to pull the tigger.

"Or I could let Porthos have ten minutes with you," Athos said and the larger man straightened, tensing and relaxing his fist.

"Give me five," Porthos said and Lamar shook his head.

"He could probably kill you in two," he said with a smirk.

"It's been rumoured he's done it with one punch," Beaumont mumbled to Lamar, being loud enough for Antonio to hear.

Antonio looked at Athos who was glaring at him, the Musketeer wanting nothing more than to run his sword through the man's chest.

"However, even though those options seems to be the most satisfying," Athos began. "I shall show you mercy. When all this is over, I'm going to personally lock you up in the Bastille and throw away the key," Athos said before turning and heading out of tent, Porthos turning to follow.

"You should do it," Antonio called after him and the two of them paused at the tent entrance, Athos' hand hovering on the flap.

He shifted slightly, glancing over his shoulder at Antonio as Porthos turned fully to look back at the Spanish Captain.

"You should kill me," he said. "There's much less chance I'll get out of here if I'm six feet under," he said and Athos narrowed his eyes at him.

"I think a prison cells will be much more for your liking," Athos said before turning and walking out of the tent with Porthos, Beaumont following after the both of them.

"Captain," he began but Athos cut him off.

"Make sure you double the guards around that man, I will not let him get away," Athos ordered and Beaumont nodded, falling into step next to him.

"Of course Sir," Beaumont replied and slowed as Athos came to a stop, Porthos stopping a few feet ahead.

"Thank you," Athos said, gesturing to his nose and Beaumont gave him a smirk.

"No problem, always here to help," he replied and Athos hummed with a slight displeasure due to the increased pain caused from having his nose fixed.

"Double the guards," he reminded before continuing on his way back to his tent.

"On it Captain," Beaumont replied before heading off.

"Oh and Beaumont," Athos called, the musketeer quickly turning to look back at his Captain. "Give them food and water," he said, gesturing to the prisoner tent. Beaumont simply nodded before walking off

"You alright?" Porthos asked a few moments later. Athos didn't look at him, only focusing on walking through camp and trying to ignore his body that was aching for rest. His nose was now throbbing like hell and bleeding still and he knew a black eye was forming slowly.

He sniffed and wiped his nose with his handkerchief, keeping it there to try and stop the bleeding.

"You know the answer Porthos," he simply replied and Porthos let out a sigh, slowing his pace slightly.

Athos did so too, knowing the man wanted to talk. He glanced across at his friend to see him struggling with something, biting his lip slightly as he thought of the right words to say.

"You think this'll ever be over?" Porthos asked and Athos glanced around him at their camp, musketeers retreating to their tents for the night.

"Treville has plans of a peace treaty, I'm sure it'll be over soon," Athos said.

"And for us four?" Porthos then asked, his voice gentler then normal. The Captain paused, turning to face Porthos who did the same. Athos narrowed his eyes, studying the larger musketeer.

"I'm never going to be to shake you three off," Athos said with a hint of a smirk. Porthos smiled with a small chuckle escaping his lips.

"All for one and one for all right," Porthos said as they began walking back to their tent.

"Always," Athos simply replied.

Once they walked inside the tent they both came to a holt, seeing Aramis stood waiting for them both with a huge smile on his face and an open letter in his hands.

"What's happened?" Both Athos and Aramis said at the same time, Aramis' smile dropping the second he saw Athos' bloody and bruised face.

"I'm fine," Athos simply said, eyes glancing to the letter held tightly in Aramis' hands.

"You don't look it," he replied with concern lanced in his voice. He stepped forward, eyes drifting to Athos' nose and then to the black eye.

"The letter?" Athos asked, trying to draw the conversation away from what was one of his most embarrassing moments as Captain.

"It's done," D'artagnan said which only caused more confusion for both Athos and Porthos.

"What's done?" Athos asked, getting slightly impatient in his aching and tired state.

"The peace treaty. It's been signed," he replied, a smile growing on his face.

"It's over, the war is over," Aramis said, practically bouncing with joy

"We're going home?" Porthos asked, unable to believe his brothers.

"We're going home," D'artagnan confirmed with a soft smile before Aramis held out the letter that was sent from Treville. Athos took it and began reading, Porthos reading over his shoulder.

"The Spanish went to push more soldiers to the frontline," Aramis began, explaining in short what the letter from Treville was stating. "However, Treville managed to work a counter-attack, saying we would only push them back further, take more of their supply routes out until we weakened the Spanish forces even more. The Spanish King crumbled and agreed to signing the treaty," he finished and Athos glanced up from the letter in his hands.

"It's over," Athos stated and Aramis nodded as he moved to the table and grabbed the bottle of wine that had been waiting unopened for Athos' and Porthos' return.

"Time to celebrate my friends, we start retreating in two days," Aramis said and Athos and Porthos finally broke, a huge smile appearing on their face. Without needing to say anything Aramis simply moved over and pulled them both into a hug, all happy the war was over. They pulled away and Athos glanced towards D'artagnan who was beaming.

"Let's get to drinking then shall we," Porthos said, grabbing the wine bottle from Aramis and pulling the cork out, pouring four cups full.

They all smiled before moving over to D'artagnan's bed, taking up seats on his bed as well as Athos'. They laughed, drank and joked late into the night, D'artagnan losing a large amount of money to Porthos in the many card games that were played.

"I swear you cheat," D'artagnan said, throwing his cards down onto the sheets in front of him and glaring across at Porthos who sat opposite him at the end of the bed. The larger man chuckled, giving D'artagnan a toothy grin before stretching his legs out along the bed.

"Or it could simply be that you're just not good at it, kid," Porthos said and D'artagnan let out a long sigh.

Aramis sat on Athos' bed, checking Athos' nose for what felt like the twentieth time that night.

"Aramis, I've already told you Beaumont fixed it," Athos said, batting away Aramis' hands and glaring at the man.

"He's not a doctor," Aramis simply stated.

"Neither are you," Athos replied with a knowing look before taking a sip of his wine.

"I like to think I've perfected my skills over the years," Aramis said and Porthos tried to hide his snort of laughter as a cough. Aramis sent him a glare but nothing more was said due to D'artagnan trying to hide a yawn.

"Rest," Athos said, standing up and taking D'artagnan's cup from him. He grabbed the nearly empty wine bottle and moved to table, placing the two cups down before downing the last two gulps of the wine left in the bottle.

"I'm glad to be back," D'artagnan suddenly said as they all got ready for sleep.

Athos paused, glancing across at Aramis before dropping his eyes down to look at D'artagnan.

"You have no idea how glad we are to have you back D'artagnan," he told his brother, earning a soft smile from him. "Now rest, all of you," Athos commanded before slipping into his own bed.


	26. The Reunion

Constance came running across the yard the second she heard the horses hooves pounding against the stone, her heart telling her it was them. 

 

They rode through the gates, her eyes landing on him and not moving from his face. She paused for a moment taking in the site of him and feeling like she could cry from relief.

 

A smile shone from his lips as he spotted her, his world finally back in place. He ignored the pain radiating from his ribs, seeing her somehow eased his aching body. 

 

They had taken four days before they began to retreat, which was longer then expected. Plus add on another week within the process of actual retreating, the long days had taken its toll on D'artagnan's body.

 

The second his feet hit the ground she was in his arms, held tightly to him as he breathed her sent in, the smell of familiarity calming him. 

 

He brushed a hand through her hair then trailed it down to her back, rubbing circles to comfort not only her but himself as well.

 

"I love you," Constance mumbled and D'artagnan smiled, chuckling slightly. 

 

"I love you too," he said before burying his face into Constance's hair, not wanting to pull away from the hug. She couldn't help but smile, her cheeks aching. "God I love you," D'artagnan mumbled into her hair and she sighed in relief, just thankful to have her husband back safe. 

 

Porthos jumped down from his horse moments later and Elodie came walking over to him with Marie in her arms, a smile slipping onto his face. 

 

"Missed me?" Porthos asked and Elodie shrugged casually. 

 

"Maybe," she said before cracking into a grin and Porthos could only laugh and smile in relief. 

 

He pulled her into a hug, gently kissing her on the forehead. He then pulled away and smiled down at Marie, taking his daughter from Elodie before she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as they shared this prefect moment. 

 

"She's grown," Porthos said and Elodie smiled up at him. 

 

"Not long before she's walking or handling a sword," Elodie said. "I bet she'll give you a run for your money," she added and Porthos laughed, kissing Elodie on the lips. 

 

Athos climbed more slowly down from his horse, ordering the stable boys to make sure the horses were fed and given water. 

 

Aramis followed in pursuit, stretching and cracking his back. He glanced around and spotted Sylvie stood by the table at the bottom on the stairs. 

 

He smiled at her, removing his hat and bowing slightly to which she smirked and rolled her eyes at.

 

Athos followed Aramis' gaze and his eyes landed on her, his breath caught in his throat as the sun lit her face up. He slowly walked over to her and her hand dropped from holding the end of her necklace around her neck. 

 

His pace slowed once he got to her and their eyes met, his blues so full of pain from the war slowly shining with love for the woman that stood in front of him. 

 

He leant in and closed the gap between them, his hand coming to cup her face as their lips met. He then pulled back, his hands slipping to wrap around her waist as she smiled up at him. 

 

"Hey," she simply said and Athos smiled at her. 

 

"Hey," he replied before kissing her once again. 

 

Aramis simply stood at the gates, all his friends finally reunited after so long. As he watched, his mind slipped to Anne and he wondered if she had thought of him often, prayed for him to return home safely. 

 

His heart began to ache as his brothers smiled happily and were all full of love for their other half. He let out a sigh and flipped his hat to place it back on top of his head before turning away. 

 

He was happy for his friends, having found something so pure in a world like this. However, a part of him was jealous of their free love, a love that didn't have to hide in the shadows, no stolen kisses or stolen touches whenever no-one was watching. 

 

He walked off into the streets Paris, deciding against going to his room even though he wanted to bath and then sleep for days, hoping his dreams wouldn't be plagued by the horrors of the war. Instead, he made his way to the palace, unable to go another second without seeing his son and the woman of his child.

* * *

Aramis got to the palace to find the Queen and her son outside; Anne sat on bench with her two ladies in waiting playing with the Dauphin on the grass. He paused at the tree line, watching his son run around one of the women as they pretended to chase after him. 

 

His eyes then drifted to Anne who had sensed his presence and turned slightly to look at him. 

 

She straightened once their eyes locked, her hand moving to grip her necklace. His chest tightened and heart pounded hard against his ribs as he moved over to her. 

 

He removed his hat and bowed once he stood in front of her, lifting up to stand straight with a small smile on his lips. 

 

"Aramis," she greeted, a soft smile appearing on her own lips as relief flooded over her now that she knew he was safe.

 

"Your majesty," he replied, placing his hat back on his head and glancing towards his son. 

 

"It's good to see you well and back in Paris with the rest of the musketeers," she said and Aramis glanced back towards her, her words so formal but eyes shining with love. 

 

"Thank you, your majesty. It has been a long journey and we have lost many comrades but we are certainly happy to be back," Aramis said and Anne smiled gently up at him. Her eyes drifted to her cross still hanging from his neck like it had been since the day she gave it him. 

 

Aramis' chest tightened even more now her eyes drifted over him, he had never felt this way about another woman before. Trust him to fall completely in love with the Queen of France, forbidden love for a pain.

 

"My dear," the King suddenly called from behind and Aramis and Anne broke eye contact, Anne quickly clearing her throat and standing up. 

 

"Yes your highness," she said with a forced smile, turning to look at her husband who was walking over to them.

 

"Come, we should play with our son," he said and Anne nodded. 

 

"Of course," she said before walking past Aramis who simply bowed. The King held his hand out for Anne to take, looking back at Aramis who let out a breath. 

 

He could have sworn the King had emphasised "our son" or maybe it was just his broken heart causing his mind to play tricks on him. Either way, he wished he had just gone up to his room and slept, instead of coming to the palace to see another man play with his child. 

 

He turned, walking back the way he came and back to the garrison in hopes of seeking out some much need food and wine as well as his bed. As he walked, he got the distinct feeling of Anne's eyes on him, yet he couldn't look back since he didn't know if his heart could take it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up really soon, I promise. Thank you for the kudos and reviews :)


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